Spectre

by Earthangell

Summary:

Gi-hun’s rebellion failed. Now imprisoned, he’s nothing more than a pawn in a game he thought he could escape. The Front Man has plans for him, and he’s not content with just breaking Gi-hun physically - he wants to remake him, reshape him into a tool of the system. The pull of surrender becomes harder to resist with each passing moment, as the Front Man’s dark brand of affection worms its way under Gi-hun’s skin.

But a mysterious soldier, whose presence feels eerily familiar, watches from the shadows, unsettling Gi-hun with memories he can’t quite reach and dredging up a past that threatens to shatter what little sanity he has left.

Or:

Gi-hun is torn between the Front Man’s suffocating grip and a ghost from his past - one who may be the key to his salvation or his destruction.

 

Canon divergence post–Season 2.

Chapter 1: Part One: The Cell

Notes:

Hey there!

This is my first published fic, and I’m definitely a bit nervous (but hey, if I don’t put myself out there, how will I ever know what happens, right?). English isn’t my first language, so if anything’s a little off, that’s probably why.

But I just couldn’t stop thinking about the lovely dynamics between Gi-hun and In-ho. Plus, since 2021, after season 1 aired, the relationship between Sang-woo and Gi-hun has not left my mind, and I had to do something about it. So… this is the result! A mix of both dynamics, and I can’t wait to see how these characters are going to collide.

Title taken from "Spectre" by Radiohead - felt like the perfect fit, since it really captures the mood and themes of the story.

Hope you enjoy this ride as much as I enjoyed writing it!

The cell is nothing, Gi-hun thinks.

Not a real room, not a real space; just a box, white and immaculate in a way that does not feel clean, but sterile, stripped of anything human, anything that might make it real. The walls stretch seamlessly, unbroken by doors or windows, the edges blending so perfectly that it feels like being trapped inside the illusion of a room rather than a room itself, like a space that was never meant to be occupied, only observed.

The overhead light never turns off. It hums constantly, an electric buzz that settles in the back of his skull like a parasite, embedding itself into his nerves, making his thoughts blur and his sense of time slip away. It just burns, washing the walls in cold illumination, revealing every detail of the small world he has been confined to - the bed, hard and thin as a wooden plank; the toilet, cold metal in the corner; the air, stagnant, dry, offering no comfort.

There is no clock, no window, no sun to rise and fall, no night to sink into.

There is no sense of time at all.

 

At first, he fights, because that is what he has always done, because that is what he must do.

The moment the door seals shut behind him, he throws himself against it, fists slamming, voice tearing through the silence, screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming until his throat hurts, screaming names, screaming curses, screaming for someone, anyone, to acknowledge his existence. He does not care what they say. He does not care if they beat him. He just needs something - a voice, a footstep, the sound of breathing beyond the metal door, a sign that he is not alone in this place.

And he is still screaming Jung-bae’s name.

Still sobbing it between shouts, voice ragged, ripped apart, hoarse with fury, with grief. He had been right there. He had watched the blood spill, watched the light go out of his friend’s eyes, watched him fall. And now he is here, sealed away in this cage, while Jung-bae’s body is left out there, cooling, discarded, just another number to be counted in a game that has already moved on without them.

It was minutes ago, just minutes ago. Jung-bae’s voice, calling for him.

The gunshot. The body hitting the ground.

The mechanical voice announcing his death like a statistic.

He keeps slamming his fist into the door, feeling the sting, the impact vibrating up his arm, feeling something, at least, feeling pain, which means he is still here, still real.

He tells himself he won’t break.

He tells himself this is temporary.

He tells himself this is just another game.

He tells himself-

 

The thirst sets in before the hunger, an ache at the back of his throat that starts as a mild discomfort, the kind that could be ignored if there were water nearby, if he could just swallow down a sip, just enough to coat the dryness and make his tongue stop sticking to the roof of his mouth. But there is no water. There is no sink, no faucet, no cup, no pipes.

By the second day, his lips begin to crack. The dryness spreads and becomes something raw, as if the very act of breathing is scraping against the inside of his throat. His tongue feels heavy, swollen, useless. His breath grows shallow, and he begins to feel the pulsing of his own blood, his heart working harder to circulate what little moisture is left in his body.

Still, his mind tells him there must be something. Water has to exist somewhere. It always does. Even in the poorest neighborhoods, even in the lowest of places, water is the last thing to disappear.

So, he searches. He presses his hands against the cold white walls, smooth and perfect, but he feels for flaws, for seams, for dampness, for the condensation that forms when cold air meets breath-warmed surfaces, for anything, anything at all.

He lowers his head, presses his tongue to the wall, licking at the surface like a desperate animal, searching for the faintest trace of moisture.

There is none.

The walls are dry.

He is alone with the thirst.

And then, eventually, he notices the toilet.

It had been there since the beginning, but he had barely thought about it, barely looked at it, because what was there to consider? A cold steel basin built into the wall, no pipes, no tank, no running water. The first time he had used it, the flush had startled him - a sudden burst of compressed air, nothing more. No water to rinse it away, no clean rush to carry it down some unseen pipe, just air, just a sound and a vacuum where water should be.

But when the thirst became unbearable, when his body began to shut down, when he could feel the collapse of it happening slowly, painfully, cell by cell, he found himself looking at the toilet again, staring at the metal rim, at the last thing inside this cell that had once come from him - his own urine.

The first time he thought about it, he wanted to vomit.

The second time, he could not look away.

There was no color to it anymore, barely any scent, just a weak, pale yellow puddle clinging to the metal, stagnant, thickening from dehydration. The thought came without hesitation this time - it was liquid.

And his body needed liquid.

The shame burned hotter than anything, hotter than the thirst itself, but he had no choice. He pressed his forehead against the metal rim, his whole body screaming at him to do it, just do it, just take what it could get, take what little moisture still remained before it was gone.

His tongue darted out.

He gagged the moment it touched the metal, the taste vile, acrid, bitter in a way that made his stomach lurch violently, his throat convulse, his body instinctively rejecting what he had just done.

But he forced himself again. Took more.

It did not help. It did not soothe the soreness in his throat, did not coat the dryness, did not give him even the illusion of relief. It was thick and rancid, full of the waste his body had already rejected, stripped of everything it had once been.

It was nothing.

It was not water.

He choked, turned his head, spat it out immediately, but the shame did not leave. The moment did not undo itself. He had done it. He had tried. He had fallen to his knees in front of the toilet like a starving beast and tried to drink his own filth.

The worst part was that it would never happen again. Because soon after, the urine stopped coming.

No water in, no water out. His body was conserving what little it had, pulling it from his cells, from his organs, from his very blood, to keep his heart beating, just a little longer, in a cruel prolongation of life.

 

Hunger is slower.

It doesn’t strike all at once, doesn’t carve into him with the immediate pain he expects. It slinks in like a predator, creeping beneath the surface, silently stalking him. At first, it’s manageable, something to be pushed away, ignored like an inconvenient itch. But hunger doesn’t rush. It waits. It lingers patiently, until it settles deep inside him, until it consumes his thoughts and his body, until it has him where it wants him.

By the third - or fourth? - day, it has grown into something else.

His stomach tightens, cramps, twists in on itself, an organ folding and folding, devouring nothing, clenching against the emptiness.

He presses his arms tighter against his stomach, as if that will make the emptiness go away. He closes his eyes, trying to push the ache down, to lie to his body, tell it that there’s food inside, tell it that it’s full.

It does not stop. It only grows.

He curls on the bed, eyes squeezed shut, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind slipping between starvation and memory, between reality and hallucination, between now and then.

He thinks of food. His mouth waters at the memory, but the taste is faint. He remembers the comforting scent of warm rice, sticky and fragrant, the grains clumping. Steam rising in thick, swirling clouds, filling the air with the comforting scent of home.

He remembers his mother’s soup, so thick and savory, its warmth a balm for his cold, empty stomach. It was rich, salty, and soothing as it coated his tongue, flooding him with a sense of safety and love that only a mother’s cooking could offer. He remembers lifting the bowl to his lips, feeling the warmth seep into his bones, his body finally satiated.

He remembers fried chicken. The crispy, golden skin, the tender meat falling apart with the slightest touch. The crunch as he bit into it, the rich, savory flavor flooding his senses. The soju he would drink alongside it, the way it burned his throat just enough to make the food feel that much more real. His daughter’s laughter as she grabbed a piece of her own, her face lighting up as she dug in with delight. The comfort of that simple meal, shared between them.

But when he opens his eyes, when the memory fades, he wakes to nothing. Nothing but the dry, empty taste of his own desperation. The emptiness in his chest, the gnawing hunger that won’t let him forget.

 

The cold becomes something difficult to ignore.

It begins in his fingers, a dull numbness that he tries to shake off - clenching and unclenching his fists, pressing them against his stomach, huddling for warmth that doesn’t come. But the cold doesn’t care. It settles deeper, crawling under his clothes, sinking into his bones.

The air is frozen, biting at him relentlessly, wrapping around him in a way that makes it feel like the chill is inside him, coursing through every part of his body. His breath curls into the air before vanishing into the nothingness, as though it too is trying to escape the relentless freeze.

By the third or fourth day, he stops shivering.

It’s not that he can’t feel the cold anymore. It’s just that his body has grown too tired to fight it off the way it did before. He still feels it, but now there’s a strange stillness in his muscles, like they’re surrendering to it, allowing it to settle in.

The cold is in him now, and there’s nothing left to do but endure.

 

He tries to keep track of time.

The overhead light flickers once every five seconds.

He counts.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Flicker.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Flicker.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Then-

Then he forgets where he left off.

He starts again.

Then he forgets again.

Time begins to slip, becomes something loose, untethered.

Did he just count that? Or was that yesterday?

Or was it before?

Or before that?

Did he ever count at all?

He presses his palms to his temples, shakes his head, tries to hold onto something, but it is slipping, slipping, slipping.

 

The walls feel closer.

The buzzing light is inside his skull.

His own breathing is too loud.

His own thoughts feel distant.

He stops trying to move. Stops counting. Stops keeping track.

No one is coming.

No one is speaking.

No one is listening.

No one is there.

There is only the white walls, the buzzing light, the hunger, the thirst, the cold, and the suffocating, creeping, inescapable certainty that this is only the beginning.

 

The door opens for the first time after what feels like days, though it could have been more, could have been less - he doesn’t know anymore. He has lost his grip on time, on what a minute feels like, what an hour is, what a day means when there is nothing to measure it by except the slow decay of his own body, the deep ache in his stomach, the crackling of his dry lips, the weight of his own breath in the frozen air.

It is the first sound in forever - the mechanical hiss of the seal breaking, the cold rush of air spilling in from the outside world, the scrape of boots against the floor.

And he moves before he thinks, because instinct is the only thing left.

He scrambles forward like an animal, dragging his weight across the freezing floor, vision blurring with desperation, with hunger, with the mad, clawing need to reach something, anything. He doesn’t know what he expects - water, food, a person who will look at him, a sign that he is still here, still real, still something more than a body wasting away inside a box.

A boot stomps down on his outstretched hand, grinding against bone, pressing his fingers into the floor so hard that something cracks. A noise escapes him, half-snarl, half-groan, his body curling around the sharp, blinding jolt of agony lancing up his wrist.

Then something cold splashes against his face.

For a second, he thinks it’s blood. His? Theirs? He doesn’t know. Until he realizes the liquid is clear, soaking into his skin, sliding down his cheeks, slipping into his mouth.

Water.

It takes him half a second to react, half a second to open his lips, to lick at the moisture, to try and drink it before it’s gone, before it’s wasted - but most of it is already pooling on the floor, darkening the smooth white beneath him, a cruel, taunting mess of wasted salvation.

Still, he licks at what’s left. He doesn’t care how it looks, doesn’t care what dignity is, doesn’t care that he has been reduced to something crawling and pathetic, something he never thought he could be. The water burns down his throat, raw and painful from the days of deprivation, but he drinks what little he can.

Something drops beside him. A single piece of bread. It is small, hard around the edges, stale from exposure.

His fingers tremble as he reaches for it, pain radiating from his crushed hand, but he forces himself to ignore it, to grasp at the bread, to shove it into his mouth as quickly as he can, before it, too, is taken from him.

They do not speak. They do not acknowledge him.

They do not look at him, not really.

And when the door hisses shut again, locking him back into the same white, humming hell of silence, he does not scream.

He does not beg.

Not the second time that door opens, when they bring water again, just enough to wet his throat, and another scrap of bread.

Not the third, fourth and fifth time, when they do the same, no more, no less.

He learns, quickly, that there is no one listening.

 

By the time they come for him, he does not resist. Or maybe he can’t. His body is too weak, his limbs too stiff, unresponsive. When they drag him from the cell, blindfolded, his feet barely touch the ground.

He is not prepared for what waits on the other side.

When the blindfold comes off, everything hits him at once - light, space, color. It’s overwhelming after so long with nothing but blank white. His eyes take a second to adjust, blinking against the flood of gold and shadow. The place in front of him isn’t a cell. It’s huge, almost obscene in how rich it looks, all dark wood and soft golden light glinting off every polished surface.

And there is warmth.

He can feel it immediately. Not just in the air, but in the chairs, the sofas. A warmth that belongs to another world, a world he used to know, a world that should not exist here, should not exist in the same building where men are starved and shot and reduced to nothing.

His body almost leans toward it.

And then - the voice.

“Player 456.”

That voice - steady, smooth, almost too calm - doesn’t give anything away. He makes himself look, and there he is: the Front Man, sitting like he belongs here, dressed in black, his mask catching the faint light.

Gi-hun wants to kill him. Wants to lunge, wants to tear at the mask, wants to take everything from him, the way he has taken everything from everyone else.

The rage burns, ignites, flares-

And then, his body betrays him. His knees buckle.

The weakness, the hunger, the thirst, the cold, the isolation, it all crashes over him at once, and before he can stop himself, he is falling.

His vision tilts, black spots bleeding into his sight.

He catches himself, barely, his palms smacking against the floor, his breath coming fast, ragged.

The Front Man does not flinch. As if this - Gi-hun, on his hands and knees, trembling from exhaustion, barely able to lift his head - was exactly what he expected. Exactly where he wanted him.

“You look terrible,” the Front Man remarks, and the amusement in his voice - small, so small, but there - makes Gi-hun’s blood boil.

Gi-hun forces his body to hold itself upright and spits at the man’s feet. The sound is wet, sharp, breaking the quiet in a way that feels almost satisfying.

The Front Man looks at the spot on the floor. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. And though Gi-hun cannot see his face, he can feel the shift in the air.

“You must have questions.” The Front Man simply remarks, ignoring the obvious sign of Gi-hun’s defiance.

He forces himself to lift his head, to meet that gleaming mask, refusing to let himself remain small, weak.

“Questions?” His voice is strained, rough-edged, scraped thin from exhaustion and disuse. “You mean besides the obvious? Like what the fuck am I doing here? Or why you didn’t just put a bullet in my skull like the rest?” His breath is uneven, his body protesting against every syllable. “Is that it, then? You like to play with your food before you eat it? Or maybe you wanted me alive long enough to parade my corpse around, make an example out of me.”

“You already know the answers to those.”

The words are so calm, so absolute, that Gi-hun’s jaw clenches before he can stop it.

And of course, he does know. The moment they dragged him out of that bloodied mess and into that white, sterile hell, he knew.

They weren’t keeping him alive out of mercy. They were keeping him alive because it served their purpose.

They were keeping him alive because they knew that a man in chains, a man broken down to his bones, is infinitely more useful than a martyr.

Because they didn’t just want to kill him. They wanted to erase him. To make him into something else.

And that is worse.

The anger winds inside him, tension building with every breath, ready to snap the moment he lets it go.

“The others,” he finally says the words, each one an effort. “The ones who fought back.”

“You failed.” The Front Man speaks without hesitation.

The words land like a hammer, blunt and merciless. Gi-hun stiffens but does not speak. 

“The rebellion was crushed. The remaining rebels, those who surrendered - it didn’t matter.” The Front Man’s voice is steady, emotionless. “They were all executed.”

Gi-hun’s stomach churns violently. Nausea rises in his throat. He thinks of Jung-bae, of the people who had stood beside him, of the gunfire that had filled the air, of the desperate screams cut short.

And he thinks of Young-il.

Young-il, whose voice had crackled over the radio just before it fell silent forever.

Who had spoken of home in the quiet moments between chaos, of a wife waiting for him, frail and sick, a child not yet born. He had whispered, when the nights stretched long and the blood on their hands refused to wash away, that if he could just make it out, if he could just survive long enough to hold them, to see them, then none of this would matter.

Then all of it would be worth it.

And now, his voice was gone.

And he would never go home.

Never see his child’s face.

Never know if they even made it without him.

His throat is dry, cracked from thirst, but the words force themselves out anyway. “The vote. The Players. They voted to stop, didn’t they?”

It isn’t really a question. Not to him. He knows the answer already, has convinced himself of it. He can see their faces - men and women broken by the brutality of the rebellion, by the bodies that lined the dormitory floors, by the truth that was laid bare before them.

They had to have voted to stop.

Because anything else would be -

“No.”

The word cuts right through him, leaving him reeling, like something vital has been carved out of him before he even knew to brace for the pain. For a moment, it feels like the whole world tilts, and he’s left standing on unsteady ground, unable to catch his breath.

“No,” Gi-hun repeats, hoarse, like he’s trying to reject the very syllable.

“They chose to continue,” the Front Man confirms, patient, almost indulgent, like he is speaking to a child who cannot grasp something obvious. “The moment the vote was cast, the money continued to accumulate.”

Gi-hun shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

His breathing turns quick and uneven, his body panicking before his mind even understands why. No, no, no-

“The vote was close, of course,” the Front Man allows, as if that is some mercy. “There were moments when I thought the tide might turn. But in the end…” He lifts a hand, spreading his fingers. “The majority ruled.”

Gi-hun’s pulse slams against his skull. He can’t breathe.

He sees them, the Players, lined up to vote, the weight of death still pressing against their spines. And yet, they chose this.

They chose this.

“You must be proud,” Gi-hun mutters, voice thick with bitterness. “Your system works, after all. You break people down just enough that they stop caring.”

The Front Man shakes his head in that maddening way of his, the way that suggests amusement without ever truly revealing it.

"Proud? No, Player 456. Proud is not the word. I am simply… unsurprised."

Something cold and ugly twists in his chest at the sheer indifference, at how easily the Front Man reduces it all - death, desperation, suffering - to something inevitable.

His mind reels, scrambles for anything else to hold onto. “How, how long? How long has it been?” he asks. “Since… since I’ve been here?”

The Front Man doesn’t answer immediately. He simply watches, and something in his stillness makes Gi-hun’s skin crawl.

“Take a guess,” the masked man finally says.

Gi-hun blinks, his thoughts sluggish, fragmented. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He tries to count, tries to piece together the hours, the days, but his time in the cell was nothing but a blur of cold, hunger, and silence.

It could have been days. It could have been weeks.

He grits his teeth. “A month?”

“Nine days.”

Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

His breath stutters, his body locking up as the realization slams into him.

Nine days. It has only been nine days.

His sense of time - his grasp on something as basic as reality itself - has been wrenched away from him.

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, as if taking in the way Gi-hun’s world has just cracked beneath his feet. “It seems your perception of time has suffered,” he muses, almost thoughtfully. “That is what happens in isolation. Days bleed together. Memories fray. The mind compensates however it can.”

Gi-hun swallows. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth in those words. Doesn’t want to admit how easily his body and mind betrayed him.

“And the Games?” he forces out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Have they continued?”

“Not yet,” the Front Man replies. “We are still cleaning up the mess you made.”

Gi-hun’s fists tighten.

The words are so casual, so completely devoid of weight.

The mess you made.

As if the rebellion, the fight, the blood spilled in defiance, was nothing more than an inconvenience.

The Front Man leans back, hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. “You tried so hard to burn this place down,” he says, the flickering firelight casting sharp shadows across his mask. “And yet, here we are. The stage will be set again soon. The Players will return to their places. The Games will resume soon. You changed nothing.”

Gi-hun stares at him, chest rising and falling too fast, fury and helplessness tangling inside him like a storm.

“You must know,” the Front Man continues, his voice quieter now. “I didn’t bring you here to gloat. I brought you to my quarters because I see your potential.” He pauses, his gaze never leaving Gi-hun’s face. “You’ve got something that the others don’t. That kind of desperation, that drive. It’s rare. You could be more than just another broken man. You could actually be...useful.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightens, a mix of disbelief and fury surging inside him. The nerve. The audacity.

Then comes the offer. Delivered so simply, so casually, so effortlessly, as if it were nothing at all.

“You have two choices, Player 456. Stay in your cell. Starve. Be cold. Suffer.”

There is a pause. Then, the Front Man gestures.

And Gi-hun follows the movement before he can stop himself.

At first, he doesn’t understand.

And then he sees it. A mirror.

And he freezes. Because the man looking back at him is not him. Not the man who walked into this place with fire in his chest and vengeance in his veins. The man in the mirror is thin, sallow, hunched, his skin pale with hunger, his cheeks hollow, his lips cracked, his hair dirty and limp, his eyes...

Those eyes don’t look like his.

They are hollow, sunken, swallowed by shadows that stretch too deep, as if something inside him has already withered away. The light’s gone, the focus too. What’s left doesn’t even look alive.

He looks like a corpse that hasn’t yet realized it’s dead.

The sickness of it rolls through him, a sudden, lurching nausea, as the reality of what they have done to him - what they are still doing to him - hits him all at once.

And then-

“Or,” the Front Man continues, voice smooth, measured, undeniable, “Admit you’ve lost. And join me.”

Silence. A silence that stretches, suffocates. And for the first time, Gi-hun is speechless.

Because he had expected many things - torture, death, execution. But this, this – he had never expected.

For a long moment, Gi-hun does not speak. The words sit in the air, heavy, as his own reflection stares back at him, gaunt, ruined, unrecognizable. He looks like someone who has already lost, someone who should not be standing, someone who should not still be fighting.

But the moment passes, and when it does, something burns inside him. He slowly gets up. A bitter laugh pushes past his lips, but it comes out wrong - hoarse, broken, more like a cough than anything else. He shakes his head, the motion filled with more contempt than words could ever carry.

“You think I’d join you?” His voice scrapes against his throat and his body trembles from exhaustion, but he forces himself to hold his ground. He will not sit. He will not kneel again. He will not give this man that satisfaction. “You think I’d become just another cog in your fucking machine?” he spits, the words full of disgust. “That I’d just give in after everything I’ve seen? After what you’ve done?”

The Front Man watches him silently, the mask impassive, but there’s something in the way his head moves, like he’s studying Gi-hun, as if calculating, as if waiting for the exact moment to strike.

“You think I’d be like you? A soulless monster who takes pleasure in this... in killing people, in destroying everything they’ve ever cared about?” he spits, the words coated with venom. “You think you’ve worn me down enough to just accept your game and all the death it brings, but you’re wrong. I’m not like them. I won’t be like you.”

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the question.

And for a moment, Gi-hun thinks he has won.

Then, the Front Man stands.

And the distance between them is nothing.

One step. That’s all it takes. The space that separated them is erased in an instant. Gi-hun tenses. 

The Front Man studies him. The sharp hollows of his cheeks. The bruises forming under his eyes. The way his limbs tremble, even now, even as he tries to hold himself steady. He sees everything.

When the man lifts his hand, Gi-hun recoils immediately, stepping back, but his body is weak, so weak, and the movement nearly sends him crashing back onto the floor. He catches himself at the last second, but the damage is already done.

“You should be grateful, you know,” the Front Man says, withdrawing his hand, “Most people who defy the system do not live to receive a second offer.”

“Then kill me,” Gi-hun snaps, the fire flaring back up, cutting through the exhaustion, the hunger, the mess they’ve made of him. “Do it. Pull the fucking trigger yourself. You won’t break me.”

A pause.

Then - the Front Man chuckles. Not in a cruel or mocking way. If anything, it sounds almost… fond. And that, more than anything, sends a chill down Gi-hun’s spine.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he asks, shaking his head slightly, as if disappointed. “This was never about breaking you. If I wanted that, I would have let the Guards do their job properly. I would have let them finish what they started in that cell. No, Player 456. This is about something else entirely.”

The Front Man gestures toward the fireplace instead, the warm, crackling glow of it, the golden light flickering against the polished wood, against the velvet, against everything Gi-hun has been deprived of for days.

“You feel it, don’t you?” the Front Man murmurs, voice low, knowing. “The difference between this room and your cell. The warmth of it. The comfort. The safety. You think your body doesn’t know what it wants? You think your mind doesn’t crave relief? Your mistake was assuming this is about breaking your spirit. It’s about proving to you that there was never a choice to begin with.”

Gi-hun’s hands curl into fists. But there is nothing to hit. Nothing to fight. Because the Front Man is not wrong. The warmth does feel like a weight lifting from his skin, a relief so sharp it is almost painful. The hunger does settle for a brief, fleeting moment, soothed by the comfort of knowing food exists, that it is within reach. And the exhaustion begs for rest, for relief, for a soft bed to collapse into.

He knows what the man is doing, but that doesn’t make it any less effective.

“You’re delusional,” he forces out. “If you think I would ever-”

“Oh, but you will.”

The certainty in his voice makes Gi-hun’s stomach turn. The Front Man leans forward slightly.

“You will, because you have already started to change. Even if you don’t see it yet. Even if you don’t understand it yet. The body always knows before the mind does. It always adapts first. It always learns, long before you accept the truth yourself.”

The words settle inside him like a sickness.

“What truth?” Gi-hun forces out.

“That this is where you belong.”

Gi-hun can’t bring himself to answer. The words catch in his throat, impossible to swallow or force out. His hands clench, fingernails digging into his palms, his body shivering - not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what’s just been laid bare.

That this is where he belongs.

The silence presses in, thick and stifling. All he can hear is the quiet crackle of the fire and the low, steady hum of something awful hovering in the air. The Front Man doesn’t say a word. He just waits, perfectly still, as if there’s nothing left to prove - because somehow, just by being here, he’s already won.

Gi-hun has nothing to say.

And then-

Then Gi-hun forces a breath out, slow, controlled, and lifts his chin with whatever remains of his defiance.

“You talk a lot about fate for a man who hides behind a mask.”

A flicker - just the smallest thing. A subtle shift of the head. A sign of curiosity.

Gi-hun presses forward.

“You want me to believe that this place made me? That I crawled out of the mud and became something you can shape, like one of your fucking dogs? That just because I survived, I belong to your system now? You’re no different than those people up there, sitting in their leather seats, drinking their expensive wine, watching us kill each other for sport.”

His breathing is shaky, his voice rough, but he keeps going.

“But at least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not. You? You pretend this is about control. You pretend you’re above them. But you still take orders, don’t you? You still serve. You think I belong in a cage, but at least I don’t wear the fucking leash around my own neck.”

Silence. The words land, lingering in the space between them. The Front Man exhales slowly, like he’s deciding something. And then, instead of retaliating, he simply straightens.

“You still see yourself as separate from this place,” he says, voice as infuriatingly patient as ever. “You fail to acknowledge that the very world you’re fighting against is the one that made you. You think the Games were something you survived? No, Player 456, they were something that shaped you. You won because you were desperate enough to crawl, to bleed, to fight until there was no one left standing.”

Gi-hun flinches. It is small, so small he hopes it isn’t noticed.

But the Front Man always notices. Even behind the mask, Gi-hun can feel his gaze, watching with the same unwavering patience as a man who has already won the game before the pieces have even been set on the board.

Gi-hun swallows, forces his voice to steady itself, to push past the crack in his composure.

“You talk like this place is some divine plan, some grand machine shaping people into what they’re meant to be. But I remember the first Game.” Gi-hun’s throat burns, but he doesn’t stop. If he stops, he loses. “I remember the sound of gunfire. The way the floor turned red. The bodies piling up. That wasn’t shaping, it was slaughter. Don’t stand there and pretend like it was something holy.”

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like someone biding their time.

Then, the moment breaks. The answer comes - soft, almost too quiet to catch - but Gi-hun feels it land before he even hears it. And it lands hard.

“You killed.”

The words are so simple. So unshaken, so absolute.

And this time, Gi-hun cannot stop the flinch, but he shakes his head immediately.

“No, I did not... I... I didn’t kill.”

He expects the Front Man to laugh. To mock. To tell him how pathetic it is to believe something so fragile, so flimsy, after everything. But he doesn’t. He just continues, voice never rising. Because he doesn’t have to.

“Shall we take a step back in time to when you first took part in the Games? Tug of War, for instance... you remember it well, don’t you?"

Gi-hun’s stomach churns.

The tight grip on his wrist, the brutal command to hold steady, the pull of the bodies beneath them as they dangled over the abyss, the final, stomach-lurching drop…

“You were grateful when the other team fell to their deaths,” the Front Man says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

Gi-hun shakes his head, something between denial and disgust tightening in his throat.

“I didn’t-”

“And you didn’t mourn them either.” The Front Man interrupts. “You didn’t look down. You didn’t check if they were still alive, if they were suffering in the dark below, crushed beneath the weight of others. You stood on that platform, steadying your breath, and you let the relief wash over you.”

There is a small pause.

“Oh Il-nam.”

Gi-hun stiffens.

“You knew he was weak. And yet, you took advantage of an old man’s failing memory to win a game of marbles.”

“He was the creator of the Games,” Gi-hun snaps. “He was-”

“That doesn’t absolve you.” The Front Man’s voice cuts through Gihun’s protest before it can even form. “His role does not change your intent. You saw an easy target, and you took it. You played him. You won. And only then, when the marbles were in your hand, when he was no longer of use to you, did you allow yourself the indulgence of regret.”

Gi-hun’s breathing is sharp now.

“And the Glass Bridge Game?”. You thanked the gods you were the last to cross, didn’t you? You watched the others step forward, watched them fall, watched them meet their end. And you didn’t move, not until there was no one left to shield you from the drop.”

Gi-hun’s fists are shaking.

“I didn’t push them.”

“No, you didn’t. You just let the bodies pile up in front of you and stepped over them.”

The heat in the room feels unbearable now.

His pulse pounds in his throat, wild and uneven, making it hard to breathe. He wants to end this - wants to shut him up, to break something, to tear the whole room apart, to smash the mirror and turn everything to dust. Maybe then, with nothing left, the air wouldn’t feel so heavy, pressing in on him from all sides.

But he can’t move. He’s trapped, anchored by everything he can’t say, and everything he can’t undo.

“And what about him?”

Gi-hun already knows who he means. He doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want it spoken.

But the Front Man does not give him that choice.

“Player 218. Cho Sang-woo.”

Hearing his name is like a slow knife. It takes a moment to register, but it cuts just as deep.

“You didn’t kill him. No, he did that himself, didn’t he? But you were the last thing he saw. You were the last thing he heard. You stood there, staring down at him, and tell me, Player 456…” The voice is lower now, quieter. “Didn’t you know, even then, what he was about to do? Didn’t you feel it?”

Gi-hun’s breath is shaking.

“Didn’t you let him sink that blade into his throat?”

The words hit too deep. Because it’s true, isn’t it? Somewhere, in some quiet part of himself, he had known. That he wouldn’t reach for Gi-hun’s hand. That there was no life waiting for him outside of that arena. The moment he lay down on the bloodstained sand and made no effort to get up, it was already over. And Gi-hun let it happen.

He swallows against the bile rising in his throat.

The Front Man exhales. Then he steps forward, slow, steady, like this is just another step in a process he’s already rehearsed a hundred times.

Gi-hun’s muscles lock up, every instinct screaming move, run, don’t let him touch you, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, frozen, as that gloved hand rises and-

No.

It touches his cheek.

The leather is warm. It shouldn’t be warm. That means there’s skin under there, flesh, heat. A person. Not a mask. Not a monster. A person.

The fingers settle gently, like they have any right to be gentle. They move down, tracing the line of his cheekbone, sliding down, curling slightly at his jaw like they know him. Like they care.

No. No, no, no - this isn’t happening. This shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t how people like them touch. This isn’t how monsters touch. This isn’t how he should be touched.

Why does this feel good? Why is his skin leaning into it like it’s starving? It is. He knows it is. That’s what’s so sick about it. His body is begging for more, for this false comfort, this twisted, fucked-up imitation of gentleness.

It’s been so long. Too fucking long since anyone touched him without violence behind it. No fists, no Guards - just a hand. Just warmth.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Is this all it takes to break him? Not pain. Not hunger. Not all the things they did to his mind. Just this - this - a fake kindness pressed against his skin.

He’s disgusted. He’s furious. And underneath all that, he’s hungry for it - craving something, anything, that even pretends to be gentle. Even when he knows it’s a fucking lie.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore.

He doesn’t know what he’s turning into.

All he knows is that he’s not getting out of this untouched.

“You will see the outside of your cage more often.”

The words are soft. That same smooth, even tone that never cracks, like none of this touches him. Like he’s just stating facts. Like Gi-hun’s life isn’t unraveling and he's not standing there barely stitched together.

The Front Man doesn’t move right away. He just stays there, hand still on Gi-hun’s face, letting the moment stretch out. It shouldn’t feel close. It shouldn’t feel intimate. But it does. It fucking does. Not because of what’s being said, but because of the way he says it. The way he takes his time, like there’s no need to rush, no need to press. Like he already knows he’s won.

Then finally, slowly, the hand lifts.

And Gi-hun feels it - feels it - the absence, like a door slamming shut inside him. And he hates it. He hates that it hurts. He hates that something so small, so stupid, so wrong, can leave him feeling like something’s been taken away.

But it has.

And he doesn’t have the words for it.

Because naming it would mean admitting it was real.

“It’s time you start learning,” the Front Man murmurs, “I will prepare you.”

The words seep in, coiling around Gi-hun. He swears he can feel them moving inside him, settling in places nothing else has ever reached.

“I will shape you. And in time,” the Front Man finishes, smooth, unshaken, “you will see.”

The words hang there, suspended, waiting for something, for a reaction, for a spark of defiance, for anything.

And for the first time in a long time, Gi-hun has no answer.

“Take him away.”

Footsteps. Hands grabbing him, strong and practiced, dragging him back into motion while his mind is still stuck in the echo of you will see. He wants to shake it off, wants to throw them off him, wants to scream that they haven’t won yet-

But they have, haven’t they?

The blindfold comes down.

And just like that, the world disappears again.

 

They throw him back into the cell like he is nothing.

A body, a thing, a discarded object being returned to where it belongs. His knees hit the freezing floor first, the impact jolting up through his bones, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sharp, shuddering exhale. The blindfold is ripped away.

The door hisses shut behind him, sealing him back into the place that has been swallowing him whole. The hum of the lights drones on, steady, inhuman. The walls - those fucking blank, endless walls - stare back at him, perfect and untouched, like they’ve been waiting for him to come crawling back.

He stays on the floor, twisted up like a discarded doll someone dropped mid-play. Breathing jagged. Heartbeat slow, heavy, like it’s tired of him too. The cold rushes in fast, grabs at him, worms its way under his skin. But he doesn’t really feel it.

Because he’s still there.

Still in that room.

Still in that moment.

And worst of all, still feeling it.

That fucking touch.

It’s still there - the warmth pressed against his skin, the ghost of gloved fingers sliding along his cheek. His jaw tightens. His fingers twitch against the floor. Something thick clogs his throat and refuses to move.

He wants it gone. He wants it out.

He wants to rip his own face apart. Scratch it until it bleeds. Tear at that spot where those fingers curled under his jaw - make it red, make it ruin, make it stop. Make it look like how it felt. Filthy. Wrong. 

But he doesn’t move. Because the worst part isn’t the touch.

It’s him.

Because somewhere in that moment, he leaned into it. Just a little. Just enough. A twitch, a shift, barely anything.

But it was real.

And that makes him sick.

The thought wraps itself around him like a snake, tight and suffocating, a feeling that will not leave, no matter how much he forces himself to breathe, no matter how much he tries to think past it.

He turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, at the artificial white light that has never turned, never given him a moment of darkness, a moment of rest, a moment to feel like time exists in a way he can still understand.

And then it comes to him, sudden and awful. The realization.

The Front Man. He has always seen everything.

The thought blooms inside him, unfurling with the slow, creeping horror of something that should have been obvious but had taken too long to fully surface.

The cell has a camera. It has to.

He thinks of it all at once, too much at once, too many memories colliding into each other like bodies dropping onto the cold cement floor, like Players falling in those first few rounds, piling up, piling up, until all that is left is the wreckage of people who once thought they had a chance.

The way his body had curled up on the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

The way he had pressed his hands against his stomach, trying to convince his own flesh that there was something there, something to digest, something to keep him from slipping deeper into starvation.

The way he had sobbed himself to sleep, Jung-bae’s name leaving his lips like a prayer to someone who was never going to answer him.

The way he drank his own urine in his most desperate hour, as he sank further into madness, as his body betrayed him in every way possible.

The way he had eaten like an animal those first few times, how he had licked water from the floor because he was too desperate to let it go to waste, how he had shoved stale bread into his mouth with shaking hands, swallowing it dry, without pause, because hunger had overridden every other thought in his mind.

And he had been watching.

The Front Man had sat in his warmth, in his chair, in his place above all of this, and had observed Gi-hun at his lowest, his weakest, his most pitiful.

His stomach twists. His fingers press against his face, against his eyes, pressing hard, as if he can block out the thought, as if he can undo the knowledge.

He stumbles toward the bed - if it can even be called that - and collapses onto it, face turned toward the wall, body curled, shielding himself as best as he can. He grips his arms, makes himself small, as if he can fold himself away from the gaze that lingers in this room, unseen but always there.

Eventually, Gi-hun falls asleep.

And then, time moves again.

 

The routine is always the same.

The door opens, the Guards step in, and the first thing that comes is the water. It is never handed to him, never given like a necessity, never something he is meant to take with dignity. It is a punishment. A humiliation. A reminder.

Most of the time, it is thrown at his face, a sharp, cold slap of liquid that shocks him every time, that stings his cracked lips, that drips down his chin and soaks into the thin fabric of his clothes, that disappears before he can gather enough on his tongue to drink. 

Sometimes, if the Guard is feeling particularly cruel, the cup is dropped just out of reach, the water spilling out before he can scramble toward it, before he can drag himself across the floor like an animal, hands shaking, stomach twisting at the sheer indignity of it, but desperation always wins over shame. Sometimes, they laugh, the distorted, mechanical noise of their modulated voices ringing in his ears as he is left there on his knees, gasping for something that will not return, lips parted uselessly, his body already learning to live without what it cannot have.

Then comes the bread. 

It’s never whole. Never a loaf. Just torn-up scraps - pieces, shreds, like someone fed it to a wild dog first and decided the leftovers would do. It’s not meant to feed him. It’s meant to mock him. A cruel little ritual to keep him breathing, but never strong. Keep the heart beating, but not too loud. Keep him alive, but just barely.

It doesn’t fill. It doesn’t help. It just sits in his gut like shame.

He stares at it like it’s a trap. Like if he grabs it too fast, it’ll vanish, or worse - someone’s watching, waiting, to see how quickly he breaks. So he doesn’t move. Even though his body’s screaming, shaking, begging for it. His fingers twitch, aching to wrap around something solid that won’t vanish the second it hits his tongue. Something that says he’s still human.

But he can’t show that.

He can’t let them see what this has done to him, how deep the hunger has dug in, how it’s become part of him now, something breathing under his skin.

But then, after an endless stretch of time, a change comes.

It’s subtle. Too fucking subtle. Like something breathing just behind him, like a twitch at the edge of vision that disappears the second he looks. Wrong in a way that doesn’t make sense, like the air is holding its breath.

Gi-hun doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. He’s too deep in it now, too rewired by this place, by the beatings and the silence and the bread that barely qualifies as food. He’s trained himself to expect the worst - to welcome it, almost - because at least then it makes sense. Water in the face, boot to the ribs, bread tossed like trash. That’s the language he understands. That’s the rhythm of this hell.

So when the door opens - just a hiss, like always - and a Circle Guard steps in, Gi-hun knows something’s off before his brain even finishes the thought. The movement’s wrong. The posture’s wrong. The steps aren’t loud enough. They aren't heavy or cruel. They are careful.

Why the fuck would a Guard be careful?

Gi-hun stays frozen, but his body betrays him. Knees locked to his chest. Shoulders tight. Arms tucked in like maybe if he folds small enough, he’ll disappear. Every nerve is screaming. Brace. Brace. Brace. But for what?

He doesn’t know. And that’s what fucks him up the most.

Because he always knows. He knows how to take a hit. Knows when it’s coming. Knows how to read the rhythm of cruelty before it lands. But this - this quiet? This stillness? This lack of violence?

It’s wrong.

There’s no shove. No boot in his ribs. No voice barking orders like he’s something that needs to be managed, moved, silenced. The Guard just... stands there. Like he's waiting for something. Like he's thinking. Like he gives a fuck.

No.

No, no, no. That’s not how this works.

Gi-hun’s brain is scrambling, clawing for answers. What is this? A trick? A glitch in the loop? Something worse dressed up as kindness? He keeps his eyes down, locked on the floor, counting the cracks in the white tile that doesn’t crack. He shouldn’t look. He knows better than to look.

But he looks.

He lifts his gaze, just barely. Just enough to see. Because something in him needs to know what is happening. Who the hell has walked into his world and refused to follow the script.

The Circle mask stares back at him.

Familiar. Completely familiar. And yet it feels like looking at a stranger.

There’s a pause that stretches, tightens, lodges itself in Gi-hun’s throat like a scream he can’t force out. He wants to say something. Needs to. But the words are caught, strangled by some invisible hand pressing down on his windpipe. 

And then it happens.

The water. The goddamn cup of water that’s always thrown - spat at him like an insult, like a joke - is set down. Placed. Gently. Right beside him. Like he's human. Like he’s being offered something instead of punished.

No.

No no no - it’s a trap. It has to be. Nothing is ever given. Nothing is meant for him. If he reaches out, he’ll laugh. He’ll take it away. The Guard will slam a boot down on his hand, shatter his fingers, tell him he asked for it.

That’s how this works.

He stares at it. Cup. Guard. Cup. Guard. He watches the hands, waiting, expecting the violence. The twist. The punishment.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, the Guard holds out the bread.

In his hands.

Held out. Not thrown. Not dropped. Offered.

Gi-hun’s fingers twitch, hovering, uncertain. Does he take it? Is this a test? What comes next? What happens if he accepts this version of the world, where the hand doesn’t strike, where the cup is set down, where the bread is given?

He doesn’t want to reach out.

He does it anyway.

His fingers move, slow, hesitant, like they belong to someone else. And when they brush against the Guard’s glove, just a whisper of contact, something stirs. A snap of static. A crack in the rhythm of his heartbeat. A pause so loud it drowns out everything else.

They both feel it.

Just for a second. Just enough to ruin him.

Gi-hun goes still. So does the Guard. The bread remains suspended between them like a question neither one of them can answer.

And then - he takes it.

And it feels wrong. It feels right. It feels like he’s crossed a line he didn’t know was there, like this simple motion means more than it should. Like he just signed something with his body instead of ink.

The Guard doesn’t turn to leave right away. He stands there, watching - or at least, Gi-hun thinks he’s watching. It’s hard to tell, with the mask. No eyes to meet. No expression to catch. Just that blank, circular shape, pointed at him like a question. Or a warning.

But Gi-hun feels it. Feels seen. 

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

He stares back.

And whatever is behind that mask, it doesn’t look away either.

Finally, the door hisses shut.

Gi-hun sits there, bread in hand, silence pressing down on him like gravity’s doubled in this fucking cell, like the walls are leaning in just to hear what he’s thinking.

And still, he doesn’t move.

Because that wasn’t just a flicker. That wasn’t just hesitation.

That was something.

And in a place where nothing happens by accident - where every step, every word, every breath is part of the system - something just changed.

And that should terrify him. It does.

But not as much as the quiet, traitorous part of him that doesn’t want it to stop.

Notes:

So, what did you think? Let me know! I’d love to hear your thoughts, especially about that ending. There’s a lot more to come, and I can’t wait to share it with you!

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 2

Notes:

Look who finally updated.

Yeah, it took a while, I know. Second semester just started this week, and med school is already doing what it does best: burying me in work and making me question my life choices. So, updates might slow down a bit (shocking, I know), but I swear I’ll keep writing whenever I can.

Anyway, enough about my academic suffering. Here’s Chapter 2. Enjoy!

The door to Gi-hun’s cell opens with a sharp hiss of metal on metal, cutting through the silence that has become so heavy and suffocating. His heart flutters in his chest, the familiar dread rising in his throat. It’s the same sound, the same unsettling rhythm. A Circle Guard, bringing food, the same cold ritual he’s come to expect. The brief illusion of sustenance.

But this time is different.

He doesn’t see a Circle Guard. Standing in the doorway, is a Square Guard. Behind him, two Triangle Guards stare out from either side.

Gi-hun’s mind races, every thought fogged with dread. What is happening?  This isn’t routine. The last time Square and Triangle Guards came together it was to take him to the Front Man. His heart sinks. Not again.

The Square Guard speaks, his voice cold and authoritative. “Out. Now.”

Gi-hun forces his body to move, to rise, too terrified to even consider disobeying the Guard’s orders, but his limbs shake with the exhaustion that has been steadily building for days. He feels every muscle scream at him, begging him to stop, to fall back into the safety of his cell.

They don’t wait for him to comply. The Triangle Guards step forward, their fingers closing around Gi-hun’s arms. Their grip is brutal, the cold steel of the weapon they carry clanking as they shift with each rough movement.

Gi-hun doesn’t resist as the Square Guard approaches. In one swift motion, he wraps a blindfold around Gi-hun’s eyes, pulling it tight. The world goes black, and Gi-hun is left in darkness, a silence so complete it drowns out everything.

Gi-hun stumbles as they haul him forward, his feet tripping against the cold floor. He’s dragged through the cell’s narrow doorway, his body scraping against the unforgiving walls. His head spins, the dizziness from hunger and dehydration clouding his thoughts. His legs feel like they’re made of stone, but the Guards don’t care. They push him, harder now, jerking him forward as he struggles to keep up.

He knows where they’re taking him. There’s no question now. They will make him kneel in front of that monster again – the man who controls everything, who toys with life and death like they’re mere games.

But then, something shifts.

The air changes, transitioning from the stale, recycled air he’s known for so long to something new.

A breeze.

It brushes against his face, soft and cool, tugging at the edges of his hair like a long-lost memory. It feels like life, like the world he’s been kept from for too long. His senses sharpen as he breathes it in, the air carrying with it the smell of earth and freedom. 

He hears it, too - faint at first, but undeniable. The sound of birds. A distant song, a melody he hasn’t heard in so long. The call of freedom, a song from another world. The kind of world he had almost forgotten existed.

The breeze picks up, rustling through invisible leaves, whispering through the trees that he cannot see. It wraps around him, touches him in ways he’s too tired to understand but feels in every nerve.

His skin prickles with the sensation of something warm, as the sun’s light brushes against his face - tender, almost too soft on his pale, starved skin.

He’s outside.

The thought dances on the edge of his mind, fragile like glass. A brief illusion. He almost smiles at the freedom in the air, the gentle kiss of the sun, the call of birds overhead. For just a moment, he allows himself to feel it - the illusion of what could have been, the memory of a world he used to know.

The blindfold is ripped off. Gi-hun blinks, struggling to adjust, his vision swimming in the sudden clarity. And then, there it is.

The sky.

The sky.

The blue stretches out above him, vast and endless. It’s beautiful. So beautiful, it hurts.

The last time he saw it, it was right after the first Game ended, the moment this nightmare started. It is almost too much for his mind to process.

For a moment, he feels like he could step into this world of freedom, feel the earth beneath his feet, breathe in the air without the chains of his captivity. But then, as the Guards shove him forward, reality crashes down on him. The beauty of the outside world feels like a cruel contrast to the cage he’s been trapped in.

He’s being led out, but not for freedom.

He looks around, trying to grasp what’s happening. The courtyard where they brought him is too small and barren. There’s no grass, no trees, no sign of life other than the distant birds overhead. It’s surrounded by high walls, a bleak, unforgiving prison within a prison. The concrete stretches out before him, grey and lifeless.

No. He realizes then.

They’ve brought him outside.

Not to let him breathe.

Not to let him live.

They made the effort to bring him here, to this cold, lifeless yard, so they could dispose of his body. No blood to stain the walls, no mess to clean up in the confines of his cell. The courtyard is clean. Efficient.

This is it.

And Gi-hun shivers, staring at the ground beneath his feet.

He’s going to die here.

Under the open sky.

The sun is shining, yes, but now it touches nothing inside him. It’s like he’s already a ghost watching himself stand there, and his body feels  so laughably breakable. Everything inside him is just… rattling. He’s a hollow thing in a shell of skin. The dread is alive and nesting deep in his stomach, coiling tighter, whispering, this is where it ends, this is where it ends, this is where it ends.

And then, for just a fleeting moment, a small, awful thought worms its way into his mind. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

He’s too tired to keep fighting. He can’t go on.

A strange sense of peace begins to settle over him, dark and twisted. His body is broken. His mind is shattered. And in that moment, he feels something he hasn’t felt in ages: surrender.

He looks up at the sky once more.

It’s the last time. He’s sure of it. He will never see it again after this-

"Undress," the Square Guard interrupts his thoughts, his tone sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

The word slaps him across the face.

What?

No, wait - what?

That’s not part of the death scene. That’s not the script. That’s not the- what the fuck does that mean?

He turns, blinking, trying to reboot his brain like a busted machine. He thought - he knew - they were going to kill him. That was the whole point of bringing him out here, right? The open sky, the clean concrete, the silence. A final bullet in a place where no one has to scrub the blood off a mattress.

Behind the Square Guard, the two Triangle Guards shift in perfect unison, their rifles rising, the barrels locking onto his chest. A silent warning.

Gi-hun looks down at himself - the teal tracksuit that once fit comfortably now hangs loose, limp, drowning the body he no longer recognizes. The fabric is stiff with old blood, dried in dark patches along his shoulder where a bullet had grazed him during the rebellion.

Other stains mar the fabric, some his, some belonging to men and women who are long gone. Blood that once belonged to friends. Strangers.

One of the Triangle Guards cocks his gun. “Now.”

Gi-hun exhales, slow and shuddering. His hands rise, weak and unsteady, to the zipper of his jacket. His fingers fumble, clumsy from the cold, from hunger, from exhaustion.

The zipper sticks halfway. His chest rises and falls, too fast now, panic licking at the edges of his breath.

He tugs harder.

The fabric gives way, peeling open to reveal his fragile arms, the muscle long since devoured by starvation.

He shrugs the jacket off, letting it crumple at his feet and then removes his shoes. One by one, his bare feet press against the cold concrete as he slips his shoes off. 

The shirt is next. He pulls it over his head and drops it on the floor, leaving his chest bare. The skin there is stretched too tightly over his bones, so thin it seems fragile enough to break. His collarbone angular, too pronounced; his ribs defined and sharp to the touch.

He hesitates when he reaches his pants, just for a moment, his fingers gripping the waistband too tightly, before pulling them down.

He stands there, clothed now in only his underwear, his body exposed beneath the watchful, empty stares of the Guards.

His fingers twitch, itching to cover himself, to shield the parts of him that still feel his, but the weight of the guns keeps his hands still at his sides.

His skin is a map of bruises - some new, fresh and purple, others old, yellowed to green, but still they cover him like a second skin, the legacy of every blow, every fall, every moment of torture.

Then, the final humiliation.

“Underwear too.”

Those two words crack something in him.

There is nothing left to take. Nothing. He is already flayed open, he is already unmade, and still they ask for more.

His fingers find the waistband and hesitate.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

And he pulls.

The cold is immediate. Shocking. Violation disguised as air. His arms fold across his body like they might shield what’s left of him, but it’s pointless. 

Gi-hun feels small. So small. Like if the Guards blinked too hard, he’d just flicker out.

He’s not a person right now. He’s not anything. He’s just a trembling assembly of bone and skin and muscle, a body without meaning, a prop, a placeholder, a thing.

And the worst part isn’t the rifles, or the cold, or even the unbearable fact that he’s naked. It’s that he feels like the world has already decided he doesn’t get to be human anymore.

“Go stand against the wall.”

Gi-hun’s feet shuffle forward, his body slow, reluctant. His arms are still wrapped around himself because if he lets go, he’s not sure he’ll still be in there. It’s all he has left. Two shaking limbs and one desperate instinct: hold yourself together, don’t fall apart, not yet, not now.

The concrete wall presses against his back. His legs tremble, threatening to give way, but he forces them to hold. He cannot falter. Not now.

And then, something catches his eye.

Two Circle Guards stand to the side, adjusting the thick coil of a fire hose, the nozzle pointing toward the ground. One of them turns the valve slowly, with methodical precision.

And his brain tries so fucking hard to make this make sense.

It’s a shower, he tells himself.

It’s fine. It’s a shower. You’re filthy. You’re disgusting. This is hygiene. This is normal.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s-

It’s not fine.

He knows what this is. It’s not kindness or care.

It’s theater.

A sick little show to remind him he’s nothing, that even cleaning him up can be violent. That even washing him can feel like a punishment. That they can dress it up like necessity, but it's just another way to break him. Another ritual in the long, degrading series of rituals that have slowly carved him down into this.

He feels his heart begin to race as they continue their work, adjusting the nozzle until it points directly at him.

The first blast of water comes without warning.

The pressure of the water strikes him like a hammer, obliterating the space between him and the wall. His body slams backward, spine cracking against concrete so hard he sees stars, his mouth dropping open in a useless, wordless scream that gets swallowed whole by the roar. His hands shoot up, useless, a reflex born from some ancient survival instinct that hasn’t caught up with the fact that this isn’t survivable. They do nothing. The water just barrels through them like he’s not even there.

And the cold - Jesus, the cold. It’s not just surface-level. It’s inside him. It rips through skin and sinks into the meat underneath, freezing him from the marrow out. His muscles lock up. His jaw clamps shut so hard it clicks. He’s shaking, twitching, like an animal in shock. His body doesn’t know what to do. It can’t think. It can’t move. He’s freezing and falling and drowning and he’s still standing.

The pressure never lets up.  It just keeps hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him - like the world decided he needed to be erased one layer at a time.

“P-Please,” he gasps, his voice barely audible over the rush of the water. “Please stop.” His hand presses against the wall, as if to push the weight of it all away. But it doesn’t stop. The cold numbs his thoughts and the pressure makes his limbs feel useless, like they don’t belong to him anymore.

The Guards remain indifferent, silent as they stand, watching. The water doesn't let up, continuing to beat down on him with a power that makes every breath harder to take, every movement more futile. His head spins with dizziness, the world blurring at the edges.

“Please,” he whispers again, his voice cracking, desperation clawing at him. His throat burns with the effort to speak, but there’s no way to make them stop. No way to make it stop.

The sheer force of the water causes his knees to buckle, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground, struggling for breath. His palms scrape against the concrete, fingers splayed, desperate to find something to hold onto.

The water stops. Not gradually, but in an abrupt, jarring silence that feels almost as violent as the deluge before it.

He gasps.

And gasps again.

His chest is seizing like a dying machine, convulsing, misfiring. The water may have stopped, but his body hasn’t caught up. His ears are still roaring. His heartbeat is in his throat. His brain is still screaming, even though the water’s gone.

He doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s curled on the floor like a broken thing someone forgot to clean up, and everything in him is frozen - not just from the cold, but from the shock of being allowed to stop. 

He tries to lift himself, arms shaking, elbows slipping, fingers sliding on wet cement. He gets maybe an inch off the ground before his body says absolutely not and collapses again, like a string-cut puppet. His forehead hits the floor. He leaves it there.

“Get up.” The Square Guard’s voice is distant. Cold. He’s just waiting.

Gi-hun tries again, but the attempt is just as futile. His muscles spasm with the effort of moving, his legs utterly useless beneath him. It’s humiliating, this weakness.

Another beat of silence.

Then the Square Guard flicks his hand and one of the Triangle Guards moves.

Gi-hun barely has time to register the heavy bootfalls before a sharp pain rips through his scalp. His breath catches as his head is yanked up, his neck straining against the force of it. The Triangle Guard’s grip in his hair is merciless, his fist twisting into the strands as he drags Gi-hun’s head up to face him.

Even through the mask, Gi-hun can hear the smirk curling in the Guard’s voice.

“Look at you.”

The Triangle Guard lowers his voice until it’s a murmur meant for Gi-hun alone, a whisper that doesn’t carry beyond them.

As if he doesn’t want his boss - the Square Guard - to hear.

As if he might get in trouble for the things he’s about to say.

“Can’t even get up on your own? Tch.” He yanks Gi-hun’s head back harder, just enough to force a weak sound out of him, something between a gasp and a groan. “Didn’t think you’d break this fast. Figured you’d have a little more fight in you.”

Gi-hun says nothing, enduring the pain.

“Guess I gave you too much credit.”

His fingers shift, releasing Gi-hun’s hair only to slide down and grip his chin instead. The motion isn’t kind. His thumb digs into the soft skin beneath Gi-hun’s jaw, forcing his face further up, tilting it left, then right, like he’s inspecting him.

The Triangle Guard lets out a quiet, amused breath.

“Still a pretty little thing, though.” The words are spoken softly. His thumb lingers, just for a moment, tracing the curve of Gi-hun’s lower lip, a barely-there touch that sends a shiver through his already trembling body. “Maybe that’s all you’re good for now.” The Guard presses down, parting his lips just slightly - just enough for the insinuation to settle in.

It takes every ounce of restraint not to stiffen, not to let even the smallest flicker of revulsion show on his face. He won’t let the bastard see how his words and touch make his blood run colder than the water that still clings to him.

He keeps his breathing even. Keeps his expression blank.

It’s just another humiliation.

Nothing he hasn’t endured before.

With a quiet, almost disappointed hum at the lack of reaction from him, the Triangle Guard’s grip loosens, his fingers ghosting over Gi-hun’s skin for just a moment longer before he lets go entirely, his hand dropping away with an air of disinterest.

Gi-hun’s head falls the moment he’s released, his chin nearly knocking against his chest.

The Triangle Guard lingers for a moment, as if considering whether to say more.

Then - he moves.

Gi-hun doesn’t see it, but he feels it. The slight shift in weight, the tensing of muscle, the way a boot scrapes ever so slightly against the wet concrete.

A kick.

He knows it’s coming. His body flinches instinctively, bracing, though he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it. His legs are too weak to carry him away, his arms too numb to shield himself. He is going to take the-

“Wait.”

The voice is not loud, but it stops everything.

The Triangle Guard halts, his foot hovering in the air. There’s a tension in the pause, a moment where it seems like he might ignore the command and go through with it anyway. However, he lowers his foot back to the ground, clicking his tongue in irritation.

Gi-hun, blinking sluggishly through the haze of exhaustion, forces his eyes to move, searching for the source of the voice.

One of the Circle Guards who had been handling the firehose is stepping forward.

Gi-hun watches him, still dazed, but something tugs at the edges of his recognition. The way he walks. The way his shoulders don’t square off aggressively like the other Guards. The way his movements lack that clipped, robotic precision that the rest of them have.

And then it clicks.

It’s him.

The same Guard from his cell. The one who places food down carefully instead of shoving it like he’s feeding a stray dog. The one who hands over the water gently, without that sharp, dismissive shove.

The only one who’s ever treated him like a person.

It should be impossible to tell - he’s just another nameless, masked Guard. But Gi-hun knows.

The Triangle Guard turns fully toward the Circle Guard now, irritation practically radiating from him. His fists clench at his sides, his shoulders tensing with the effort to hold himself back.

“You forget your fucking rank?” he hisses, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to speak unless you’re told to.”

The Circle Guard doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift under the weight of the Triangle Guard’s fury.

“We brought him here to clean him up,” he says evenly. “To make him presentable.”

The Triangle Guard scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Presentable? You’re fucking joking.”

“He needs to be intact,” the Circle Guard continues, his tone unmoved. “The Front Man expects him to be presentable for the next stage.”

Something about that makes Gi-hun’s stomach twist. His breath catches in his throat.

The next stage? What the hell does that mean?

He swallows hard, his mind reeling.

Are they restarting? The Games?

The thought churns in his gut, but he has no time to process it because the Triangle Guard is still talking, his voice edged with incredulous amusement.

“Presentable for what? To sit on a fucking cushion and watch?” His laugh is sharp, cruel. “You think he needs to look good for that?”

The Circle Guard lets out a quiet sound of impatience. "Orders are orders."

The Triangle Guard clicks his tongue, clearly unimpressed. "A little more of a beating would do him good. Might remind him where he belongs." He looks down at, as if considering. "Or maybe we could mess him up in ways that wouldn’t show." His voice dips lower, something almost suggestive threading through the words. "I doubt the boss would care if he was a little sore." 

Once again, the Triangle Guard crouches in front of him, bringing their faces closer. His gloved hand brushes Gi-hun’s cheek in mock affection before gripping his jaw again, tighter this time, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. "Pretty thing like you - shame to let that go to waste."

Gi-hun can hardly process the words, his breath catching as his body instinctively shrinks away. The closeness feels suffocating, the weight of the Guard’s stare crawling over him. He can feel the heat of the Guard’s breath, even through the mask.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the Circle Guard stiffen, his posture going rigid for just a fraction of a second. It’s subtle, but Gi-hun sees it. The tension. The unspoken discomfort.

When the Circle Guard finally speaks, his voice is clipped, measured. "That's not why he's here."

For a moment, there’s silence. The Triangle Guard lingers in his crouch, his grip on Gi-hun’s jaw tightening just slightly before he lets out a short, irritated huff. Then, slowly, he turns his head toward the Square Guard, waiting.

The Square Guard is still standing in the distance, studying the situation.

“He’s right,” he says simply. “Help him up.”

The Triangle Guard mutters something under his breath, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. But he obeys.

His hand clamps around Gi-hun’s arm, yanking him up with little care for how weak he is. Gi-hun stumbles. His legs nearly buckle beneath him. The weight of his own body feels unbearable, his knees shaking from the effort to stay upright.

The Triangle Guard doesn’t let him fall, but he grips him with just enough force to remind him how easily he could.

And then, once he’s steady, the Triangle Guard lets go.

Gi-hun drags in shaky inhales, each one a battle against the tightness constricting his chest. He barely has the strength to lift his head, but still -

His gaze finds the Circle Guard again.

And the Circle Guard is still looking at him.

A strange awareness, thick and unspoken, pressing in the space between them.

That's when something odd happens. A small, almost imperceptible shift. A quick movement of the head.

A barely-there jerk, like the Guard is trying – fighting - to break eye contact, but it’s almost physically impossible.

Gi-hun’s stomach clenches.

The motion - it’s familiar.

Not just the action itself, but the feeling it stirs inside him. The way something inside his brain immediately latches onto it, dragging up the hazy sensation of recognition.

Déjà vu.

He knows this. He’s seen this before.

But where?

When?

It’s not a memory he can fully grasp.

A thread of something almost tangible, a connection half-formed, just out of reach, that stays with him.

Even as the Circle Guard steps back.

Gi-hun stands there, naked, trembling from the cold, water still dripping from his body, forming a small, miserable puddle beneath him. His muscles are locked in place, every fiber of him screaming for this to end, but he forces himself to stay upright, eyes fixed on the Circle Guard, who goes stand at the firehose, gripping the nozzle.

The Square Guard signs at the Circle Guards. "Lower the pressure."

The command is unexpected. Gi-hun barely reacts, but his eyes remain locked on that Circle Guard, watching, searching for something beneath the blank, faceless mask. The Guard hesitates for a fraction of a second before turning the valve. Gi-hun watches his hands, the slight tightening of his fingers before the adjustment is made.

When the firehose is turned on him again, the pressure is lower. The water still stings as it hits his bare skin, but it is no longer a violent force meant to drive him into the ground. Every droplet that rolls down his skin feels like a taunt, a reminder that even in their supposed mercy, they are still in control.

His breath shudders out of him, his body sagging slightly with relief, even as the shame still burns beneath his skin.

The Square Guard watches the process in silence for a few minutes before finally giving a curt nod. "Enough."

The water stops. The hose is rolled up with practiced efficiency, the Circle Guard's hands moving quickly, methodically. But Gi-hun keeps watching, unwilling to look away. There is something there, something -

Rough hands grab him, yanking him forward, forcing his body into motion. The cold air bites at his soaked skin, but there is no time to react before he is dragged away from the courtyard.

 

 

The door to his prison slides open and the blindfold is removed abruptly, revealing the same cold walls that have become his world. The Guards shove him inside without ceremony, and he stumbles forward, nearly falling to his knees before catching himself on shaking limbs.

The sound of the door slamming shut echoes in the empty space.

Gi-hun stands there, naked, wet, humiliated, his body wracked with fatigue. The air inside the cell is freezing, his skin prickling as it dries too slowly, the chill setting into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but there is no warmth to be found.

At that moment, his eyes catch on a subtle shift in the monotony of the cell.

On the floor, neatly folded, lies a set of clothes.

He moves toward them slowly, almost warily, as if expecting them to disappear the moment he reaches for them. His fingers brush against the fabric - it’s different. Not the stiff, bloodstained teal of the tracksuit he once wore, but something stark, clean, disturbingly pristine.

The tracksuit, identical in cut and fit to the one he once fought, bled, and survived in, is now devoid of color - pure white, spotless, as if attempting to erase all that came before. His number, 456, is inked in stark black on the left side of the chest, a quiet but inescapable brand, and again, bold and unrelenting, across his back.

The white shirt beneath carries the same dark digits on the front, stark against the fabric, the only thing that defines him in this void of color and identity.

And finally, a white pair of shoes sits beside the uniform, an echo of the ones he wore in the Games, yet untouched by dirt, by struggle, by history.

Gi-hun stares at the clothes for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the fabric. The white is blinding in its sterility, an insult wrapped in cloth. It isn’t a gift. It isn’t comfort. It’s a statement.

A deprivation.

The teal tracksuit had once been a mark of the Games, but even that had been tied to an identity, a presence among others. This? This is erasure. The walls of his cell are white. The floor is white. The ceiling, the bed, everything around him - white. Now, even he was being swallowed by it, dressed in the very absence of color, stripped of even the most basic visual autonomy.

And the number - his number - stamped onto the fabric like a brand. The only mark of his existence left, reduced to three digits. A number to be counted. A number to be controlled.

He clenches his jaw, but his hands shake as he pulls the clothes on. The fabric is soft against his skin, disturbingly gentle after all he has endured. It should be a relief. It isn’t.

Because as he stands there, newly dressed, the weight of it settles over him like a shroud.

 

 

An hour passes. Then another. And he is removed from his cell again.

“Sir, he is here.”

The blindfold is ripped away and the Guards step back.

Gi-hun flinches as light punches straight into his skull. His eyes seize up, pupils narrowing fast, and it burns. It burns. Not just the brightness - the knowing. Because he doesn’t need to see it to know where he is. He smells it. He feels it in his bones.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, fake comfort behind a cage. The air’s warm, like it’s trying to lull him into letting his guard down, like heat can wash the blood out of the walls. But nothing ever burns clean in this place. Nothing.

Wood. Leather. Money. Control. All of it carefully arranged to look like civilization - polish over rot. A throne room built inside a grave. A palace inside a slaughterhouse.

The Front Man’s quarters.

Gi-hun’s lip curls, his body still not fully uncoiled from the tension of being dragged here. His mind is already screaming before his eyes finish adjusting.

He scans the room, instinctively, like prey memorizing exits, but his gaze locks on something new.

A table. And on it, food.

It’s different from the pitiful scraps they’d tossed at him in his cell. No cold, stale bread. No flavorless, barely digestible rations designed to keep him alive, but never satisfied. Instead, it’s a meal meant to be savored. 

A bowl of juk, thick rice porridge steaming softly, the kind meant to settle an aching stomach, to nourish without overwhelming. A plate of peeled fruit, apples, pears, and oranges sliced neatly, glistening under the golden light. A fresh loaf of bread, its crust perfectly golden, torn just enough to reveal the pillowy white inside. And honey, thick and glistening in its dish, catching the firelight like liquid gold.

The scent of the dakjuk is what hits him first. It’s been so long since he’s had anything but cold, flavorless sustenance, his body barely remembering what real food is supposed to taste like.

But this? This isn’t just food; it’s memory. Dakjuk, thick and steaming, the kind his mother used to make when he was sick as a boy, when she would sit by his bedside, spooning it into his mouth with quiet patience, brushing his hair back when he was too feverish to eat on his own. And now, here it is, placed before him in a room that has never known real warmth, offered not out of care but as a weapon, as bait.

Gi-hun drags his gaze away, forcing his hunger back into the pit of his stomach. The game is obvious. 

Step one: Remove the past. Strip him down, take away his old clothes, erase the filth that tells the story of his suffering. 

Step two: Show him the alternative. Warmth, food, clean fabric against his skin. 

Step three: Make him want it. Let the hunger grow, let the exhaustion wear him down, let him feel just how much easier it would be to give in.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so goddamn predictable.

Another thing catches his attention.

The armchair.

There had only been one before. Now, beside the Front Man’s armchair, a twin throne sits waiting, identical in every way - dark leather, deep seats meant to swallow the body whole, armrests carved with meticulous detail, wide enough to sink into, settle into, to rule from.

An invitation.

The words are left unsaid, but Gi-hun hears them anyway. Join me. Wasn’t that what he had said last time?

His attention shifts to the Front Man, seated in his armchair, staring at a massive plasma screen, back straight, shoulders square. He does not turn immediately, does not acknowledge Gi-hun the moment he enters. Instead, he waits - an unspoken statement of control.

Finally, he stands.

“Player 456.” The voice is smooth, even, carrying the weight of familiarity and authority in equal measure. Acknowledging him. As if this is some reunion, as if Gi-hun hasn’t been dragged here like a prisoner, stripped and cleaned like livestock before being presented to its owner.

A gloved hand gestures toward the chair beside his own. A twin throne.

“Sit.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move. His eyes flick to the seat and he wants to laugh - no, he wants to spit. Equal footing? Fuck that. It’s not a seat, it’s a performance. A stage. A trick. Side by side like they’re partners in this nightmare, like any of this is earned or shared. Like Gi-hun hasn’t been crawling through hell while this man sat in comfort, in control, watching it all from behind a mask.

The armchair is a statement, not furniture. It says: You belong here.

And Gi-hun wants to scream.

Because how dare he. How dare this man offer comfort like it's a kindness, like a place at the table makes the meat less rotten, like a chair beside a monster makes him less of a victim. The floor is soaked in blood, the walls hum with machine-fed death, and this bastard thinks throwing him a cushion is a fucking gesture?

No.

No.

Gi-hun scoffs, arms crossing tight over his chest like a barrier. He doesn’t just refuse - he drags the silence out, lets it stretch, thick and ugly, makes sure every second of his stillness says, Go fuck yourself.

"I’ll stand," he says at last, voice flat, empty, disinterested, as if turning down a bad drink at a bar.

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, then nods. “As you wish.”

Gi-hun doesn’t miss the amusement buried in that calm acceptance. He knows the game. Let him refuse. Let him think he’s resisting. Let him get tired, let the comfort become more tempting with every second he remains standing.

But he won’t fall for it.

And then, the Front Man moves closer.

A gloved hand reaches out, fingers threading through Gi-hun’s damp hair, slowly, testing the reaction rather than the texture. The touch is light, almost curious.

Gi-hun reacts before he can stop himself.

A sharp inhale. A flicker of something that isn’t quite disgust, but isn’t anything close to welcoming, either.

And he sees it. The Front Man fucking sees it.

The fingers shift, glide again over his scalp, pressing down this time - just a little. Just enough to mark it. To say yes, I’m here. Yes, I can still touch you like this.

Gi-hun grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. He tries to go still, tries to lock his body down, but it doesn’t listen. His shoulders twitch. His skin prickles. His breath falters. He feels it - every goddamn inch of that touch - and it burns, not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t.

And that’s the horror of it.

Because he remembers.

He remembers the last time. The hesitation. The warmth. The way his body leaned in before his brain could scream don’t you fucking dare. He remembers needing it. Craving it. The way that one small contact lit something up in his chest that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with being human.

And now it’s back. That same sick feeling, curling up his spine like a parasite. That same pull.

It makes him want to vomit.

The hand finally pulls away.

“They could’ve done a better job cleaning you,” the Front Man murmurs, inspecting his work, as if Gi-hun is something to be evaluated. “But… it’s acceptable. Next time, I’ll have them use proper products. Shampoo. Shower gel. A real scrubbing.”

Gi-hun shakes his head with a dry, humorless laugh.

“Wow,” he drawls, voice thick with mock appreciation. “The hospitality here is unbelievable. How lucky I am that you care so much about my hygiene.” Gi-hun’s lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. His voice drops lower, biting. “That wasn’t a shower. That was an act of humiliation.”

The Front Man lets out a low chuckle, not the least bit offended. “In your position,” he says smoothly, “you still don’t deserve a real shower.”

He steps back, letting his gaze sweep over Gi-hun from head to toe in quiet assessment.

“It suits you” he comments finally, a casual observation that feels anything but casual.

Gi-hun looks down.

The new tracksuit is pristine. Clean, untouched. Nothing like the one he was wearing before - the one soaked in sweat and blood, in filth and memory, in everything that made it his. This one is a blank slate.

Too clean.

“Well, white isn’t really my color” Gi-hun remarks, sarcastically.

"I beg to differ. It’s fitting, really." The Front Man muses. "White is a symbol of rebirth. A clean slate."

Gi-hun’s lips twitch. “Huh. That’s funny. Because I remember being a Player. I remember the bodies. I remember everything. So you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t feel particularly reborn.”

The Front Man chuckles, low and knowing, as he finally turns toward the plasma screen.

"Tell me, Player 456," he murmurs, sinking into his chair once more, settling into his throne. "What do you think I brought you here for today?"

Gi-hun already knows.

His lips curl in spite.

"To watch the Players," he spits. "The ones you haven’t butchered yet."

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, as though considering something trivial.

"You talk as though they are already dead." His tone is steady, unbothered. "And yet, that is not true. They are here by choice. Each of them was given the same opportunity - leave or stay. They chose to continue."

Gi-hun laughs, a sharp, bitter sound that barely passes his lips.

"Choice?" he echoes, shaking his head. "You think this is a choice? You drag people so deep into desperation that dying becomes easier than living, and then you call it free will?"

The Front Man says nothing. Instead, he turns.

"It’s almost time."

A gloved hand lifts toward the controls and the plasma screen hums to life.

And Gi-hun sees the new Game arena.

It is unlike the previous arenas, a meticulous recreation of a world that does not exist. A false sky stretches above it, an expanse painted in perfect gradients, shifting through the passage of time in eerie replication. Morning melts into noon, noon fades to dusk, dusk sinks into midnight. The colors bleed into one another in a slow, unreal cycle, the transition seamless, hypnotic. A sky that never darkens for too long. A sun that always rises again, because it is programmed to do so.

The centerpiece of the nightmare stands before them:

Two dolls.

The first - the girl. Familiar. The towering figure from the first game, Red Light, Green Light. Her round porcelain face is frozen in the same eerie neutrality, her dress a bright, unnatural yellow.

The second doll, a boy. He stands opposite her, his expression eerily blank, painted with the same lifeless innocence. His uniform is blue, his arms resting stiffly at his sides. They face each other, unmoving, like puppets awaiting their command.

The Players begin to arrive.

A sea of tracksuits. Bodies moving, positioning themselves within the Game’s design. Their footsteps echo, heavy with hesitation, with unspoken fear. Some glance at the dolls, some at the shifting sky above them, as though trying to calculate something unknowable.

Gi-hun watches them, counts them. There are too many faces, too many people about to be swallowed whole by this machine disguised as a game.

A crackling sound fills the room.

"Welcome, Players!"

That bright voice. Cheerful. The same unsettling, mechanical sweetness that had haunted his nightmares since the first game. The automated voice spills from the speakers, clear and melodic, completely detached from the violence that would soon follow.

"The fourth game is Dongdaemun."

The camera feed shifts, focusing on the two dolls. The boy and girl stand across from each other, still as statues. But suddenly, with a slow, unsettling grace, their plastic arms begin to rise. Their fingers stretch forward - and touch.

They form an archway.

Beneath them, a circular circuit path is drawn into the sand, stark white against the dark ground. It looks almost harmless. A simple game, a nostalgic echo of something played in childhood.

The voice continues, unfazed by the growing tension in the Players below.

"Players must walk along the circuit path when the song begins."

The camera zooms in, showing the Players shift on their feet, their bodies already anticipating the terror that is to come.

"When the lyrics of the song end," the dolls move again, their jointed arms lowering slightly, as if preparing, "whoever is trapped between their arms... will be eliminated!"

There is no need for further explanation. Gi-hun understands immediately.

The dolls will not choose. They will not pause to consider mercy, nor hesitate over misplaced steps. The moment the song ends, the arms will lock into place.

And whoever is caught inside? Gone.

No second chances.

The screen flickers, shifting angles again. Players begin stepping forward onto the circuit. Some shuffle nervously, eyes flicking toward the mechanical figures towering above them. Others keep their heads down, silent, resigned.

And then - Gi-hun sees them.

Two figures stand near the back, hesitant, their bodies tense but alive.

Kang Dae-ho, Player 388. Hyun-ju, Player 120.

His mind races. That’s not possible.

He had assumed they were dead. The Front Man had claimed that everyone who surrendered was executed.

And yet, here they are. Alive.

For a moment, he does not dare to believe it. And then he turns.

The Front Man is already watching him. He does not speak right away, as if waiting for Gi-hun to ask the question.

"How?"

His voice is lower now, almost careful, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile logic holding this moment together.

The Front Man’s reply is effortless. "They retreated."

Gi-hun’s fingers twitch.

"They were in the dormitory when the rebellion surrendered," the Front Man continues. "So they weren’t executed."

Gi-hun sighs. He had been so sure. That night had felt like an end, a massacre, an erasure. But now, two pieces of it have slipped through the cracks.

He is not responsible for their deaths.

The realization uncoils something tight inside of him. A brief flicker of relief.

For the first time since he had been dragged back into this hell, he feels something that is not just loss.

But it is fleeting - dissolving just as quickly as it appears, drowned beneath the weight of everything else that festers inside him. His fingers twitch at his sides, restless, angry, guilt-ridden.

His voice cracks against the silence. "I should be down there."

The words felt truer than anything he had said in weeks.

“I should be with them. Enduring this. Dying, if that’s what it comes to. Because there is no stopping it. So, what difference does it make?”

For the first time, the Front Man turns his head fully toward him.

“No.” A simple denial. A final one.

Gi-hun turns his head sharply, eyes burning. “No?”

The Front Man tilts his head, the black mask catching the light just enough for the flicker of fire to reflect off its sleek surface.

“You talk as though you still belong to them,” he says. “As though you are one of them. But that’s not the truth, is it? You are not down there because you lived."

The words settle between them like iron.

“You won.”

Gi-hun’s lips press into a thin, bloodless line.

"You don’t belong to that world anymore,” the Front Man continues.“You passed the threshold. You crawled your way out. You devoured what was put in front of you, tore it apart with your teeth, and survived. You took your life back with blood under your nails and walked free.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, but the words are sinking in, settling into the marrow of his bones in a way he doesn’t want them to.

The Front Man’s voice doesn’t waver. “There is no return from that.”

A breath. A pause. Followed by a whisper of something cold.

“They are only Players. But you? Now you are something else entirely."

The words burn more than they should.

Gi-hun swallows, his throat tight. "Then why do you still call me a number?"

The Front Man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns slightly, looking toward the plasma screen, where the Players begin to take their places.

Gi-hun pushes further, the bitterness curling in his chest.

“If I’m not one of them anymore,” he says, “why am I still just ‘Player 456’ to you?”

The Front Man looks down, considering, before answering.

“Because your name is just a story you tell yourself.” The Front Man turns to face him again, voice unwavering. "A fragile thing. A memory of a man who no longer exists."

He gestures toward the screen, toward the Players standing stiffly under the watchful eyes of the two dolls.

"Down there, they are nothing but numbers because the system demands it. They exist only as parts of the Games."

Then, his gaze settles on Gi-hun again.

"But you?" The man’s voice lowers. "You are nothing but a number because you have no place outside of this. You came back. You clawed your way to the edge of the system and then chose to step back inside. You are still here, because deep down, you have never left."

Gi-hun feels something tighten in his chest.

“You’re not a Player anymore, at least not entirely. But you’re not free, either. Not yet." The Front Man pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "You’re in limbo, trapped between who you were and who you could be. You’re stuck as a number until you accept that you’ve ascended.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches. Ascended? The word lingers in the air, heavy and oppressive.

"You’ll stay Player 456 until you accept what you’ve become. You’re part of this now. You can’t go back."

Gi-hun hates the way his voice remains calm, steady, never faltering, never giving an inch. Hates that the words slide beneath his skin like something dark and inevitable.

So he lashes out the only way he can.

"Why do you watch the Games from here?" His voice is sharp, demanding. "Why through a screen? You could be there. You could watch it in person. Or do you need this?" His voice twists, laced with bitterness, with challenge. “Are you dissociating yourself from death?"

"Dissociate?" The word is repeated, slow, almost curious. "The way a butcher dissociates from the pig? The way a doctor dissociates from the patient he cannot save?"

The fire flickers.

The room feels smaller.

"This screen-" he lifts a gloved hand, gesturing toward the massive plasma before them, where the Players begin to take their places, standing between the two dolls, "-is simply a tool. A perspective.

His voice is even, devoid of hesitation.

"Distance does not absolve responsibility. Proximity does not prove guilt."

Gi-hun grits his teeth.

The Front Man’s voice lowers.

"If a man watches a war through a camera lens, does it mean he is not a soldier?"

His fingers tap against the smooth surface of the armrest.

"A scientist watches a disease unfold beneath a microscope. A researcher observes animals in the wild. A surgeon stands behind glass, watching a procedure unfold, learning from the incisions made, the way the body reacts, the choices taken to prolong or extinguish life."

His gaze does not waver.

"The observation does not remove the act. It only clarifies it."

The screen shifts.

A close-up of a Player - a woman, young, face tight with concentration, her hands trembling at her sides.

"This screen does not protect me from death."

The camera angle changes again. A man, older, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

"It only allows me to see it better."

Gi-hun wants to vomit.

There is no reverence in the way he speaks of dying. No weight to the fact that they are people. The Players on that screen - they have families, they have pasts, they have regrets, they have names. 

And yet, the Front Man speaks of them like subjects beneath glass, like data on a screen, like an equation to be solved.

As if death itself is just another variable.

"You twisted, hollow fuck." The words slip out of Gi-hun, his throat raw with the weight of them. He doesn’t yell - there’s no need. The quiet is heavier, sharper. It slices between them, thin as a knife’s edge.

Gi-hun feels his legs tremble, exhaustion threatening to pull him down, but he fights it - resists the urge to sit. The armchair remains beside him, waiting, but sinking into it would be accepting something. A luxury he has not earned.

But neither will he kneel. He refuses to lower himself beneath this man, beneath this thing, refuses to let the weight of his own body force him down.

So he stands.

Unsteady. Shaking. But standing.

Gi-hun’s attention shifts to the TV as the speakers crackle to life again, and for a moment, the only sound that fills the suffocating silence of the arena is static, an artificial hum vibrating through the sterile walls of this manufactured death trap.

“Players, remember! Whoever stops moving during the song will also be eliminated! So keep walking until the song ends!”

The sweetness in her tone sends a shiver down Gi-hun’s spine.

And before anyone else can process their terror, the music begins.

It is soft at first, barely above a whisper, just a distant melody drifting through the arena, but as the first verse settles in, the voices of children fill the space, so sweet, so hauntingly innocent that it makes Gi-hun’s stomach turn violently.

Dong, Dong, Dongdaemuneul yeoreora,  

At first, there is hesitation, an instinctual need to freeze, to listen, to process, but the moment the first few Players begin stepping forward, the others quickly follow, forcing themselves to move in the circular circuit, their feet unsteady, their breaths coming out in ragged exhales, some still murmuring prayers under their breath, some biting down on their lips so hard that blood beads along their skin.

A young man stumbles slightly, his balance off from the adrenaline surging through his veins, and an older man beside him reaches out instinctively, gripping the younger man’s arm, steadying him, offering no words of comfort but simply holding him upright so that he does not fall, does not stop, does not get eliminated.

Nam, Nam, Namdaemuneul yeoreora,

A woman lets out a strangled sob as she walks, one hand clutching at the sleeve of the man beside her, her nails digging into the fabric like claws, her entire body trembling as she keeps whispering, “This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real-”

The man behind her, Player 100, his face contorted with anger, spits the words like venom, “Shut up! Just keep walking!”

No one stops.

The song continues.

Yeol dusiga doemyeoneun,

Gi-hun watches the screen without blinking. His fingers dig into his thighs, covered in that white tracksuit. He does not breathe.

Muneul danneunda.

The dolls’ arms snap shut. A sickening, bone-crushing sound.

And then - the gunfire.

Screams.

Bodies collapse instantly, lifeless, heavy, their weight hitting the sand with dull, final thuds, their blood soaking into the artificial ground before their corpses even finish falling.

Player 100's head jerks backward as the bullet pierces his skull, his body slamming into the woman beside him, dragging her down, her final cry swallowed by the suffocating air before she even hits the ground.

A boy, barely a man, no older than twenty, stands frozen as the realization dawns upon him, his wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto the lifeless bodies at his feet, and before he can even make a sound - before he can even scream - a shot rips through his chest, his body snapping backward, arms flailing, his breath gurgling, choked, before he crumples next to the others, his face twisted in an expression of pure terror even in death.

The surviving Players flinch, their bodies instinctively jerking away from the carnage, but they do not stop. They cannot stop.

Because the music starts again.

Dong, Dong, Dongdaemuneul yeoreora,

Again.

Again.

Again.

And each time, more die.

The screen does not cut away.

Gi-hun watches, his body completely rigid, his pulse hammering in his ears, his chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic movements as the death toll rises before him, the bright colors of the Game tainted with thick splatters of red, red, red.

Then, suddenly, a familiar face.

Yong-sik. Player 007.

He turns sharply, his body twisting, shielding someone. Geum-ja. His mother.

She is too slow, her age betraying her, her frail form lagging behind.

And Yong-sik does not think twice. His hands press against her back, urging her forward, pushing her toward safety, forcing her to keep going.

But her steps are too short and the song is ending.

Yeol dusiga doemyeoneun,

Gi-hun leans forward. He wants to scream. To warn him. To tell him to run.

Muneul danneunda.

Yong-sik shoves her out of the way at the last second, his arms outstretched, his breath ragged-

The shot rings out.

His body jerks forward, blood bursting from his chest in a violent spray, his mouth parting as if he might say something, but nothing comes.

He collapses.

His mother falls to her knees, hands trembling as they reach out, as if she might be able to grab him, might be able to shake him awake, might be able to undo the last five seconds that shattered everything.

She lets out a sound that does not belong in this world.

A wail, a raw, broken thing.

Gi-hun closes his eyes for a moment, but it does not help. The image is already burned into the backs of his eyelids.

The world does not stop for grief. It does not slow, it does not bend, it does not allow itself to soften, to open its cold and merciless hands and let the weight of sorrow settle for even a second.

It does not let a mother hold her son one last time, does not let her run her fingers through his hair as she did when he was a little boy, does not let her kiss his forehead or whisper to him the words that all mothers whisper to their children when they wake from a nightmare - It’s alright, I’m here, I’ll always be here.

It does not let her mourn.

Yong-sik’s body is caught between the dolls, unmoving, unrecognizable in the stillness of death. He had stood, he had fought, he had pushed his mother forward, and now he hangs there in the frozen instant before the bullets tore through his chest, his final act of love suspended in time, in air, in the impossible distance between a mother and her dead child.

The mother stands just outside, helpless, her outstretched hands trembling, unable to touch him, unable to pull him from the grasp of the dolls. The Circle Guards approach, and with cold efficiency, they drag her son’s body away, along with two other Players who met the same fate, their limbs flailing lifelessly as they are carted off, discarded like refuse.

The music begins again.

Gi-hun’s breath catches in his throat. 

She isn’t going to move.

She is going to stay there, kneeling, unmoving, waiting.

Because what else is there? What is left? The only thing that had mattered in her world is gone, and she cannot even hold him, cannot even close his eyes, cannot even kiss his forehead one last time before the cold takes him forever.

And Gi-hun knows that pain.

He knows the moment when the world breaks, when it takes the person you love most and does not let you keep anything of them, not their warmth, not their voice, not even the chance to say goodbye. He remembers stepping into his small, quiet apartment, the air still with the scent of food that his mom had made for herself, her lying down on the floor, waiting for him.

And he had been too late.

The money he had won, useless.

He had dropped beside her, shaking, his fingers barely able to touch her, as if the moment he did, it would make it real. He had curled into her side like a child, seeking the warmth of her arms, the comfort of her breath against his forehead, but she was gone.

And now, Geum-ja is making that choice. She is refusing to leave.

Gi-hun’s heart hammers wildly. “Move,” he whispers, then yells at the screen, at her, even though she cannot hear him - “MOVE!”

And then, suddenly, a force - an interruption - Hyun-ju, Player 120. She grabs Geum-ja’s arm and yanks her backward, hard. The older woman stumbles, nearly collapsing, but Hyun-ju does not let go.

"Come on," she hisses. "He's gone. You have to run."

Geum-ja’s head shakes frantically, her sobs breaking from her chest, her legs locked in place. "I can't," she weeps. "I can't leave him."

"You don’t have a choice," Hyun-ju snaps, gripping her even harder, her nails digging into fragile skin. "You think he would want this? You think he would want you to just sit here and let them kill you?"

The words slam into Geum-ja like a slap. Her breath stutters, chokes, catches in her throat as her body betrays her mind and follows.

She runs.

Or rather, Hyun-ju drags her forward, away from the only thing she has left.

Gi-hun sighs in relief.

Then his attention shifts to a young man, who is moving differently from the other Players. Player 125. Not panicked or frenzied. He’s moving with purpose, with an unsettling calm. His body isn’t hurried, it’s almost… measured. Strategic. 

His face is young, innocent, with none of the grime or blood-streaked desperation that has been painted across the faces of everyone else. But there’s something in his eyes - a coldness, a distance. 

He is cautiously approaching another boy around his age, Player 124.

Oh, Gi-hun knows that one. The man whose cruelty was already apparent in the Games, the one who initiated the killing during lights-out without remorse. He is just outside the dolls’ arms, taking careful, measured steps to keep himself of their reach. He doesn’t want to be caught between them. And the song is about to end.

Yeol dusiga doemyeoneun,

Gi-hun watches this, his breath steadying in his chest. And then, in a moment that feels like everything has frozen - Player 125 moves. Without hesitation, he shoves Player 124. 

Muneul danneunda.

Player 124 stumbles forward, caught completely off guard by the shove. His eyes widen as he realizes the last moment of his life is slipping away, and before he can react, the dolls’ arms slam shut with an unholy precision, trapping him between them. The shot is instantaneous. 124’s body goes limp, blood pouring onto the sand, his body dragged by the force of the bullet.

Player 125 stands still, watching. There’s no joy in this boy’s eyes, no remorse. He simply did what needed to be done. A calculated decision.

The Guards come, swiftly, efficiently, removing 124’s body from the arena with mechanical indifference. Player 125 watches the Guards without any reaction, his gaze flat, emotionless.

“During the lights out,” the Front Man explains, his tone as cool and detached as ever, “Player 124 killed a girl. Player 380.”

Gi-hun’s stomach drops, his mind racing. He doesn’t know who Player 380 is. But he understands what the Front Man is saying.

“She was 125’s ally,” the Front Man continues. “A friend. Maybe something more. But 125 didn’t intervene that night. He could have, but he didn’t. Why? Because of fear.”

Gi-hun’s fingers tighten at his sides. He feels the weight of those words, the weight of the choices he has made, of how fear has often kept him from doing the right thing.

“Player 125 acted out of fear before.” The Front Man continues. “Fear of death, of the unknown. He couldn’t save Player 380 because the fear consumed him, paralyzed him. But now, he was given a choice. He could have turned away, let 124 pass. But he didn’t. He made a decision.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightens as he listens, his mind racing, struggling to grasp the meaning behind Player 125’s action.

“So, what is this?” Gi-hun mutters, more to himself than to the Front Man. “This Game? Is it about survival, or something more?”

The Front Man’s gaze doesn’t waver from the screen as his voice remains steady.

“It’s about what people become when they are pushed to their limits,” he explains. “Player 125 couldn’t save 380. Not because he lacked the courage, but because survival instinct often strips us of our humanity. Fear, cowardice, selfishness - they are not the opposite of courage, they fuel it. Now, with his back against the wall, 125 had to act. And he did. He found a part of himself locked away, something he would never have known if it weren’t for the Game.”

Gi-hun stands frozen. The words hang in the air, weighty, suffocating. Survival. Fear. Humanity.

However, just as his mind tries to process the magnitude of what the Front Man has said, the scene shifts again.

Jun-hee, Player 222 and Myung-gi, Player 333.

They are both caught between the dolls' arms, just on the verge of being trapped. Jun-hee is moving too slowly, trying to avoid the deadly embrace of the dolls but unable to gain the speed required to escape their grasp. Her face is streaked with sweat, her breath ragged, and her hands clutch her stomach, trying to protect the child inside her as though she could shield it from the impending doom closing in on them both. 

"Please, Jun-hee,” Gi-hun whispers, his voice tight, pleading with her even though he knows she cannot hear him, “don’t stop. Keep moving.” 

Myung-gi, Player 333, sees it. He sees her struggle, sees that she cannot make it in time, that if they keep walking at the same pace, they’ll never make it out of the dolls' grasp. There is a moment of understanding on his face, as Myung-gi takes a breath and makes a choice.

In one swift motion, he pushes her. It is a desperate act to save her, to give her a chance, to make sure she doesn’t die as he watches her struggle in vain. He pushes her with all the strength he has left, the final push of love and sacrifice, the weight of everything they’ve been through together, wrapped into that single, life-saving movement. 

Muneul danneunda.

Jun-hee stumbles forward out of the dolls’ reach, and the arms snap shut.

The shot rings out. Myung-gi’s body crumples in an instant. Jun-hee’s eyes widen, her body frozen as she watches him fall, his blood staining the sand beneath him.

Gi-hun watches her from the screen, his heart aching for her, for the little girl she once was, the girl protected during the Games. How can she survive this? How can anyone? His chest tightens, a weight settling there as he watches her struggle. She’s so young, so small, and yet she is being forced to survive in a world that cares so little for her - just like the rest of them.

He reaches out instinctively, his fingers brushing against the screen as if he could reach through it, to comfort her.

He turns away from the screen, his gaze shifting to the Front Man,  his eyes filled with rage. "How could you put a pregnant girl in the Games? How could you let her be part of this?”

The Front Man crosses his legs in his armchair, his posture casual yet commanding. “Life outside the Games isn’t much better for her. She has no family. No support. Her child has no future, no one to care for it. She has nothing but the hope that the Games might give her a chance to survive. They might offer her more than the world she was born into ever could.”

Gi-hun shakes his head. “But she voted to leave! She didn’t want this. She could’ve walked away!”

“She chose to join the Games. Whether she voted to leave or not, the moment she accepted the invitation, she placed her fate in the system’s hands.” The Front Man's voice is calm, his tone carrying an unsettling finality.  “The vote may have given her and other Players a fleeting illusion of control, but in the end, it was not her decision that mattered.The majority chose to continue, didn’t they? Greed, hunger for more…they always win in the end.” 

Gi-hun’s chest tightens. The words settle like cold steel. He doesn’t know if he believes it, but he feels it. He feels how trapped she is. How they all are.

A bitter scoff forces its way past his lips. His fists clench at his sides, white-knuckled, the rage simmering just beneath his skin. "You really get off on this, don’t you?" His voice is low, sharp. "Sitting there in your fucking chair, acting like some all-knowing prophet, spewing poetic bullshit while people are dying at your feet." His eyes darken, his breath uneven. "You’re just a glorified butcher in a fancy fucking mask."

The Front Man doesn’t flinch. He merely shifts slightly in his seat, tilting his head as if examining something fascinating. “And yet, you hang onto every word.”

Gi-hun stiffens.

The Front Man leans forward slightly, elbows resting against the armrests, his presence stretching across the space between them like an unseen force. “Maybe it isn’t my words that disgust you. Maybe it’s the fact that, deep down, they don’t feel like lies.” His voice lowers, curling around Gi-hun like a whisper in the dark. “Maybe you hate that part of you understands.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, breath unsteady. His mouth opens, the denial burning in his throat "That’s not true."

The words sound weak, even to himself.

The Front Man remains still, unspeaking, victorious in his silence. He doesn’t need to argue. The doubt has already taken root.

Gi-hun turns away first and sees it.

The Game is over.

A digital counter blinks in the corner of the screen, cold and unfeeling.

NUMBER OF PLAYERS: 32 

Gi-hun exhales shakily, his eyes scanning the aftermath. The camera pans across the arena, zooming in on the survivors.

Some are sobbing, bodies trembling as the weight of what just happened crashes down on them all at once. Others are hugging, clutching onto each other as if afraid that letting go would mean losing another piece of themselves.

His eyes flicker over to Dae-ho, standing in the middle of it all, breathless and shaking. And then - Jun-hee.

She stumbles toward him, her steps slow, her face streaked with dirt and blood and sweat, her body trembling from the weight of the loss she just endured. Dae-ho meets her halfway, his arms coming around her in a fierce, desperate embrace. She presses her face into his shoulder, her body curling inward, as though trying to disappear into his hold.

Hyun-ju still has a grip on Geum-ja, keeping her upright. They don’t speak, don’t move beyond the rise and fall of their exhausted, battered bodies, their clothes soaked in sweat, smeared with blood that doesn’t belong to them.

They are covered in it. The evidence of everything they have endured, everything they have lost.

And yet, Gi-hun remains clean.

His uniform is still untouched, the white fabric untainted by the blood and filth that coats the others. He is not there, not among them. He is separate, standing above it all, watching as though he is something else entirely.

Something closer to the Front Man than to the Players.

The footage stops.

The screen fades to black.

And there, in the darkness of the blank screen, he sees them.

Their reflections, side by side.

Gi-hun in white. The Front Man in black.

It’s almost laughable in how perfect it is. Like someone planned it. Like the universe decided to stage a sick little art piece just for the two of them. Contrast, symmetry, performance. A white tracksuit, clean and bright and fucking empty, next to the black - commanding, still, heavy. The Front Man sits like a god who got tired of pretending to be human. Gi-hun stands like a man on trial.

And yet the mirror, that bastard thing, shows no hierarchy. No throne. No weight difference. Just two men. Side by side, with no barrier between them. No line.

Gi-hun swallows, but it does nothing to ease the heat creeping up his spine.

Because the Front Man is watching him. Not directly, but through the reflection, his mask tilted just so, the smooth black surface capturing Gi-hun’s form, holding him within its gaze. There’s something in the way he sits - possessive, dominant, completely at ease with the power he holds over the room, over the Game, over Gi-hun.

Gi-hun can feel it, the weight of that authority, pressing against his skin like an unspoken command. His eyes linger on the screen for a moment longer, but then he looks away, unable to hold his focus.

And for a moment, the thought drags itself through his mind, slow, unforgiving.

So this is what it would feel like to join him.

To step forward. To take his place beside the throne, to let the black swallow the white, to let the lines between them blur until there is no contrast, only power shared between them.

It makes his stomach twist, a slow curl of revulsion deep in his gut - not just at the thought itself, but at the way something in him doesn’t immediately reject it. At the way, for the briefest second, it feels almost right.

And in the silent, suffocating darkness, when Gi-hun dares to look at the reflection again, when their eyes meet again, he realizes - the Front Man is just as intoxicated by the sight of them, side by side, as he is.

Notes:

Okay, okay, I can’t lie…

I was way too excited writing that last scene. Like, you have no idea. I’m over here hoping you all felt the tension (and poor Gi-hun’s pain) because I was practically grinning while typing.

Oh, and that little head jerk from the Circle Guard? So familiar, right? I mean, remember those scenes in Season One where someone (cough, cough) couldn’t stop staring at Gi-hun, but then tried so hard to look away? Such subtlety, honestly. But don’t worry, Gi-hun will figure it out eventually. He’s just… taking his time.

Your comments are honestly the highlight of my day, so let me know what you think!

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hello, wonderful readers!

Thank you so much for your kind kudos and thoughtful comments! Your support means the world to me.

As I mentioned before, college is keeping me on my toes, but don't worry - my motivation is at an all-time high! If updates take a bit longer, it's because I'm juggling assignments, not because I've forgotten about this fic.

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for your patience and understanding!

Happy reading!

The silence is deafening.

Gi-hun’s breath hitches in his chest, the quiet suffocating him. Every inch of his body screams to move, to look anywhere but at the screen, at their reflection together, but he can’t.

It’s wrong. It shouldn’t be this way. He shouldn’t be standing here, caught between what he is and what he could become.

He forces himself to look away.

Anywhere.

The wall, the ceiling, the floor - anything but the screen, anything but him, anything but what’s sitting right next to him.

His gaze flickers, frantic, desperate, looking for something to anchor himself.

And then it lands on the armchair.

His chair.

Wait, no.

Not his chair.

The thought slams into him like a bullet, sharp and immediate. No. No, it’s not his.

But for one horrifying, gut-churning second, his brain had whispered it to him. Had called it that. Had let the idea slide in without resistance, as if it belonged there.

It’s right there, beside the Front Man. The empty space, cold, waiting. Gi-hun’s eyes betray him. They’re drawn back, again and again, to the armchair.

He hates that it’s there. He hates how much it pulls at him, how the thought of sitting in it feels like an unspoken promise, an unfulfilled longing.

What would it feel like, to sit there? To be in that chair, beside him?

The chair isn’t just a chair - it’s the power, the control, the purpose that Gi-hun has been missing his whole life. He can feel it deep in his gut, an ache that’s been there for far too long.

The chair would swallow him whole, take him into its dark embrace, give him the thing he’s never had: a place, a role.

Would it feel like finally belonging? Like being part of something that’s bigger than himself? Bigger than the mistakes he’s made? Bigger than all the lives that were lost so that he could live?

No, he shouldn’t even think like this. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want to sit in that chair, to give in to the power that would claim him. It would mean accepting everything that came with it - the blood on his hands. Ali. Sae-byeok. Jung-bae. Young-il. Sang-

Damn it.

Every name feels like a weight pressing against his chest. He can still see their faces, hear their voices. They’re all gone because of this. Because of the Games. Because of the system the Front Man represents. The blood is on his hands. On his conscience. On his soul.

His moment of weakness now feels like a betrayal - of them, of what he’s lost. He knows it. But it still pulls at him. It calls to something inside him that he doesn’t want to admit.

He can’t want this.

But in the back of his mind, he wonders. He wonders what it would feel like - finally being seen. Not as Player 456. Not as a failure, not as a mere number, but as Seong Gi-hun.

And what about that mask?

That last barrier. That last line between them, the thing that makes the Front Man untouchable, unreadable, unknowable.

If he sat there, in that chair, would the Front Man remove it?

The thought alone makes something deep in his chest constrict, makes the air feel too thick, too charged. He imagines it - imagines the moment the Front Man would finally lift his hands, slow and deliberate, reaching up to undo the mask. For him.

Gi-hun exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, just long enough to see it.

The mask sliding away. The reveal of the face hidden beneath it, a face Gi-hun has never seen, never known, but wants to. The idea of it crawls under his skin, worms its way into his brain like a fever, spreading hot and sickly sweet through his veins.

But wait-

No. It wouldn’t happen like that.

It would be worse. More terrifying.

Because Gi-hun would be the one to do it.

The Front Man would sit before him, head tilted up, those hidden eyes locked onto his, unable to break contact.

Gi-hun would be standing, looking down. The space between them nonexistent, the heat of his body radiating into the air, the Front Man’s legs slightly parted, enough for Gi-hun to settle in.

Would he let him do it?

Would he sit there, perfectly still, his chest rising and falling beneath the weight of anticipation?

Would he hold eye contact? Would he let Gi-hun take control?

The idea of being allowed such an intimacy sends a shudder down Gi-hun’s spine.

No force, no struggle, just - submission. A quiet surrender from the Front Man as he tips his chin ever so slightly, giving Gi-hun permission to reach forward, to take.

To touch.

He imagines his hands trembling as he reaches forward, his fingers brushing the cold metal, feeling its smooth surface of the mask against his skin. So cold. He can already feel how they’d shake, his body betraying him - but then –

His thoughts betray him first.

Because it’s not just the mask.

It’s his hands.

His hands on Gi-hun.

He remembers - fuck, he remembers.

The way the gloved fingers had pressed against his cheek before. The first time. The unexpected warmth, the control in the touch.

How it had made his breath hitch.

How it felt good.

It should disgust him.

It should.

But instead, the memory coils inside him like something dangerous, like something forbidden but craved. He wants it again.

Wants that touch again.

Wants the weight of those hands on his skin, guiding him, grounding him. Wants them on his hands when he reaches for the mask.

Because - God help him - he wouldn’t be able to do it alone.

He can already feel how his fingers would tremble, how his breath would stutter if he got that close, if the mask was in his grasp. He knows it. The weight of the moment would crush him.

But if the Front Man steadied him -

If those hands pressed over his own, warm through the gloves, holding him firm, stopping his shaking -

Gi-hun’s knees nearly buckle from the thought alone.

Would he just hold him like that?

No, those fingers would shift, barely, almost intertwining with his own, guiding him.

Teaching him.

Showing him how to take his mask off.

He can feel it now, the slow, intoxicating slide into madness, the heat building deep inside him, spreading through his body, sinking low, so unbearably low.

Because he would allow Gi-hun to take this from him, to strip away his final shield, his last defense.

Would the Front Man’s breathing hitch when the mask came loose? Would his lips part, just slightly, before Gi-hun even sees his face?

Would his eyes be dark? Would they be deep, unreadable? Or something softer? Something he never expected?

His voice –

Oh, his voice.

Without the mask, it wouldn’t be distorted. No more filters, no more layers between them. It would be raw, unhidden, nothing separating them from what’s real.

Would it be low? Would it be soft?

Would he say his name slowly, savoring each syllable, letting it linger in the air like a claim, like something that belongs to him now?

Would it wrap around his name like a whisper? Like a possession?

Seong Gi-hun.

Would he taste it? Would he draw it out, as if every sound was his alone to utter, like the name itself was an offering, a gift to the man before him?

Would it feel like being seen for the first time? Would it strip away everything - the guilt, the shame, the self-loathing - leaving only that name, that moment of being truly acknowledged, not as a pawn in a game, but as someone real, someone human?

Seong Gi-hun.

A whimper slips from Gi-hun’s lips before he can stop it.

Fuck.

His head drops forward, eyes squeezed shut as the flame pools low, creeping, curling, settling in his groin.

God, he’s sick. He’s fucking sick.

Gi-hun can’t breathe.

The silence is suffocating. His hands are sweaty, his legs stiff beneath him, locked in place by a tremor he can’t control. The heat pooling low in his belly burns - aching, raw, desperate. He’s half-hard.

Shit. Half-hard.

The realization hits him, the shame twisting deep inside him, filling him with disgust. Not here. Not with him.

But it’s there. The undeniable evidence, pushing against the tight fabric of his pants, making it hard to ignore. The arousal feels like a betrayal - one his body has no interest in fighting, despite the disgust in his mind.

He shifts his weight ever so slightly, desperate for relief, but even that small movement sends a pulse of friction straight through him, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood.

He wants to tear his eyes away from the Front Man’s reflection, wants to look anywhere – anywhere - but that place where their gazes meet, locked in the suffocating silence. But he can’t.

And the worst part - the absolute worst part - is that the Front Man knows.

Gi-hun doesn’t see him react, doesn’t hear a shift in his breath, doesn’t witness a single change in his perfectly composed posture.

But he knows.

Knows that the moment that pathetic, broken whimper slipped from his lips, the Front Man had heard it. Had felt it.

Had seen the way Gi-hun’s body betrayed him in real-time.

Had seen the obvious tent in his pants.

His skin burns with embarrassment, his breath stalling as he tears his gaze away from their reflection, from the sharp awareness of his own body’s weakness. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to feel like this.

He can’t be here. Not one second longer.

He needs to get out. Now.

His throat feels raw as he finally speaks, his voice sharp with desperation, the words falling from him before he can stop them. “Can I leave now?”

He doesn’t look at the Front Man. He’s too ashamed. Instead, his eyes dart to the Guards standing by the door, stoic and unmoving. They’ll have to escort him out.

But they’ll see it. The bulge in his pants.

He wants to escape, but he can’t even move. The weight of the room is too much. He opens his mouth again, his anger rising like fire. “I said, can I leave?” His voice is harsh, rougher than intended, but he’s too far gone to care.

The silence lingers, suffocating. And the Front Man doesn’t say a word.

Gi-hun hates him for it. Hates how he lets the quiet stretch on, like he’s enjoying it. Like he’s savoring every second of Gi-hun’s discomfort, his humiliation.

Finally, he stands up from his armchair, slow, unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world.

For a moment, Gi-hun recoils, a sharp instinct telling him that the Front Man is coming for him - coming to touch him, to control him. He stiffens, hands curling into fists at his sides, but then-

No.

The Front Man doesn’t approach him. Instead, he walks past, toward the back of the room. The table. The meal.

Gi-hun had forgotten about it. When he first entered, he noticed it, but it had seemed so distant then, so unimportant compared to the suffocating tension in the air, the power in the room.

But now - now that the Front Man walks toward it, it’s all Gi-hun can think about.

His stomach growls painfully. The gnawing hunger deep inside him becomes impossible to ignore.

The meal is simple, calculated.

Dakjuk, fruit, bread. Nothing extravagant, but everything carefully crafted to tempt him.

A symbol.

A test.

Gi-hun can feel it. The weight of the temptation, the way the meal represents something. Comfort. Control. It’s an offering, but not one he can accept.

He watches, helpless, as the Front Man stops beside the table. The way he leans down, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the bowl of dakjuk. The casual movement sends a ripple through Gi-hun’s body, as if the gesture itself was meant to call him.

“You should eat,” the Front Man says, his voice smooth, even. It rings in Gi-hun’s ears, sharp in its simplicity. “You must be hungry.”

Gi-hun’s mouth goes dry. He is hungry. His body reminds him of it with every painful pang, with every twist in his gut.  He hasn’t eaten properly in - how long now? Two weeks?

But none of it matters.

Because this isn’t about the food.

Gi-hun knows it.

And more importantly - the Front Man knows that he knows it.

His anger rises fast, fueled by his humiliation, by the arousal still lingering in his body, by the way the Front Man stands there, calm, patient, waiting for him to break.

Gi-hun hates him.

Hates him so much.

His feet move before his mind catches up. His body acts before reason can stop him.

He reaches for the bowl, fingers closing around the smooth ceramic, lifting it from the table-

And then he throws it.

Hard.

The bowl shatters against the floor, dakjuk splattering everywhere, ceramic bursting apart, shards flying in every direction.

Gi-hun’s chest rises and falls as the heat of his own anger crawls under his skin. Good. Let the bastard see. Let him know that no amount of food, no carefully set table, is going to make him kneel.

The smell of the dakjuk lingers in the air, warm, rich, thick with the promise of comfort.

Gi-hun breathes hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He should feel triumphant. He should feel satisfied watching the remnants of that meal spread out like an insult between them. But-

His stomach clenches.

A deep, aching pang, sharp and hollow. A reminder. A punishment.

Damn it.

He could have eaten.

The realization crawls through his gut, sour and unwelcome, but he forces himself to push it down. He won’t give the Front Man the satisfaction of seeing even a flicker of regret.

Gi-hun rolls his shoulders back, and scowls. “I wouldn’t take a bite of that shit if I was on my knees dying.” He gestures lazily to the mess on the ground. “Go ahead, though. Scrape it back into the bowl if you want. Maybe you’re the kind of sick bastard who likes feeding people off the floor.

The Front Man, infuriatingly, does not react.

Not to the shattered bowl, not to the words, not to the tremor in Gi-hun’s voice that he hates himself for.

“It was just a meal,” the Front Man finally answers, calm collected. “Something to eat while we talked about the Game you saw today.”

Gi-hun scoffs. “Like hell it was just a meal.”

He knows the game. Knows how this works. First, an affectionate touch. Then, a shower - or something close to that. After that, clean clothes, and now a real meal.

Step by step. Not kindness. Conditioning.

Gi-hun shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. He shouldn’t have wasted the food. That was stupid. Stupid and pointless. But admitting that means giving ground, and he can’t do that. Not now.

The Front Man shifts slightly, the faintest tilt of his shoulders. “At the very least,” he says, voice unreadable, “stop being childish and sit down. Let’s talk like adults.”

Gi-hun scoffs, shaking his head. “Oh, now I’m the childish one? You keep me locked in a fucking cell, bring me out like some circus act, and now you want me to sit at the table and play nice?”

His stomach twists again, harder this time. A cruel reminder of just how long it’s been since he last ate.

Standing feels like holding onto something - like resistance, even if it’s just for show. But really, what does it matter? He’s not winning anything by hovering here, by pretending that this little battle of posture makes a difference.

And honestly? He’s exhausted.

So he moves, dragging himself toward a chair with exaggerated slowness, making a point to slouch when he sits, his body loose with forced carelessness.

“There. I’m sitting. Happy?”

Gi-hun expects the Front Man to sit across from him. Expects a direct confrontation. But instead, he moves to the corner of the table.

Not opposite. Not front-to-front.

But diagonal. Ninety degrees. And too close.

Gi-hun stiffens.

The proximity sends a prickle down his spine, a sharp, electric awareness that makes his muscles coil. It’s subtle, but it changes everything.

The chair shifts softly as the Front Man settles in, his posture unbothered, his gloved hands resting on the table in an effortless sprawl. Relaxed. Like he belongs here.

Like Gi-hun belongs here, too.

And suddenly, he’s aware of himself again. The weight of his body against the chair. The heat of his skin. The lingering ache of arousal that hasn’t completely faded.

Gi-hun shifts in his seat. Discreetly. He adjusts his hips, angling his body away slightly to lessen the pressure. The fabric of his pants drags against his erection, and he can’t stop the sickening feeling of it - the unwanted, humiliating friction.

And if the Front Man notices his movement, he doesn’t say anything.

Gi-hun forces himself to focus on something else. His eyes flick toward the untouched food still sitting on the table – the fruit, the bread, the honey.

“So,” Gi-hun says dryly, “if this is supposed to be a conversation over a meal, why aren’t you eating?”

The Front Man merely leans back, gloved fingers idly brushing the armrest of his chair.

Gi-hun raises an eyebrow, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, let me guess - you don’t eat in front of someone beneath you?”

Still, silence.

The mask tilts slightly in his direction, unreadable.

Gi-hun exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Or maybe you’re too scared to take that mask off. Too scared to look like a person, even for a second. What, does it make you feel safe? Keeping that thing on? You think if you take it off, you’ll actually have to face-”

“You don’t want to see what’s underneath.” The words are barely above a whisper.

The Front Man says it differently than anything before. Lower. Almost... trembling.

It catches Gi-hun off guard in a way that nothing else has so far.

Gi-hun frowns. His lips part slightly, before he finally mutters, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The way the Front Man said it wasn’t like the rest of his rehearsed, calculated responses. It wasn’t cool, detached, in control.

For the first time, it feels like the bastard misspoke. Like there was something real underneath all that composure. 

And Gi-hun won’t let that slide.

But before he can press, before he can demand again what that meant, the Front Man moves, shifting back in his chair. The hesitation is gone, buried beneath something smoother, practiced.

“As I was saying,” the Front Man continues, as if the last thirty seconds never happened, “the Game we watched today-”  

Oh.

Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be.

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. Avoidance. A subject change. Not even a condescending remark or another cryptic line. Nothing.

Just redirect. Pretend that moment didn’t happen.

That’s interesting.

That’s very interesting.

Gi-hun watches him for a second longer, noting the way the Front Man doesn’t meet his gaze directly, not in the same way as before. He’s already moving, already trying to push them forward.

And that? That just makes Gi-hun more stubborn.

So, he leans forward, deliberately interrupting, “Cut the bullshit.”

The Front Man stills.

Gi-hun tilts his head, studying him. “What was that just now?” His voice is light, casual. Mocking. Testing. “Did I actually hear some emotion behind that one, or was it just my imagination?”

No answer.

“Come on.” He smirks. “Where’s the usual monologue? About how I should be terrified of what’s underneath that mask?” He pauses, voice laced with sarcasm. “I mean, you always have some self-righteous speech prepared, right? Right?”

The Front Man finally turns toward him, slowly.

And when he speaks again, his voice is already back to normal. “The Game today,” he repeats, ignoring him completely, “revealed something interesting about the nature of sacrifice. Of human nature.”

Gi-hun leans back in his chair and laughs. Loud, amused, mocking.

“Oh, wow.” He shakes his head, grinning. “You really don’t wanna touch that, huh? Just gonna slide right past it?” he tuts softly, enjoying finally having the upper hand, “You always act like you’re untouchable, but I hit one nerve, and suddenly, you have to pivot back to your bullshit philosophy class.”

No reaction.

The Front Man is good at this game - really good. But so is Gi-hun.

And now? Now he’s interested.

Fine. If he wants to talk about the Game, Gi-hun will play along. For now.

The Front Man continues, voice smooth, unshaken. “Player 007. A son, sacrificing himself for his mother. One of the strongest, most instinctive bonds there is.”

Gi-hun stays quiet.

“Player 124 and 145,” the Front Man goes on. “Hatred. Vengeance. 124 killed 125's ally, and the fury that followed... It was personal. A matter of blood.” He tilts his head slightly. “And then, of course - love. Player 222 and 333."

Gi-hun presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to react. But he does. His stomach knots, his pulse ticking faster against his skin.

The numbers. Not names. Never names.

His mind supplies the images without his consent. The bodies. The ones who clung to each other in their last moments. The ones who had no idea their faith in each other would betray them. The ones who died alone.

And now, he’s supposed to sit here and discuss it like a fucking dinner topic.

A sharp, high-pitched ringing builds in his ears. The Front Man keeps speaking, keeps listing numbers, numbers, numbers - but Gi-hun isn’t hearing him anymore.

Because they had names.

They had voices, laughter, people waiting for them. They had lives.

His fingers curl into his palms. The anger in his chest swells, spreading like something thick and hot in his veins.

The sound of the Front Man’s voice blurs, turning into a droning, detached rhythm. Cold. Distant. Inhuman.

Gi-hun’s hands slam against the table. The force of it rattles the untouched plates, the glass, the silverware.

"Are you serious?" His voice cuts through the air like a blade.

The Front Man stops speaking.

Gi-hun lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "We’re sitting here, discussing death over a fucking meal?" His voice rises with every word, rough and strained. “While their bodies are still cooling?” He gestures wildly toward the table, toward the untouched food. 

The weight of it is unbearable.

He breathes hard through his nose, shaking his head, the bitter taste of his own anger on his tongue. “No, you know what?” His eyes snap back to the Front Man, burning with something furious. “You want to talk so much about human nature? Let’s talk about you.”

The air goes still.

Gi-hun leans forward slightly, voice steady now, but sharp enough to cut. “How can someone talk about death so fucking naturally?” His jaw is tight, words slipping between his teeth like venom. “How do you build something like this?” His fingers twitch where they rest against the wood. "How do you stand here, sit here - whatever the hell you do - and watch thousands die as the only goddamn purpose?"

Silence.

Then, smoothly, the Front Man answers.

“It’s exactly like reality.”

Gi-hun stills.

The words shouldn’t catch him off guard. He should have expected them.

The Front Man’s voice is calm, steady, effortless. “In the real world, these people take years to die. Wasting away. Starving. Drowning in debt.” He gestures vaguely, like it’s a simple fact of life. "At least here, it’s quick. At least here, they get a chance to thrive."

Something inside Gi-hun cracks.

He stares.

A long, tense beat passes before he lets out a breath - sharp, uneven, disbelieving.

Then he laughs.

It’s not real laughter. Not even close.

It’s empty, bitter, ugly.

“That’s your justification? That’s how you sleep at night? You think because the world is fucked, that gives you the right to make it worse?” His voice shakes - not with fear, but with rage, with something deep and curdled in his gut.

He gestures wildly, voice rising, unsteady. “You say it’s just like reality? That they’d die anyway?” He lets out a breath, sharp and disbelieving. “Who the fuck made you the one to decide how fast it happens?”

Gi-hun’s chest heaves, fury spilling from him like it’s been waiting to be unleashed.

“You sit here, pretending you’re giving them a choice - pretending this is somehow fair. But there’s nothing fair about any of this.” He leans forward, eyes burning. “You make them desperate. You make them believe there’s no other way.”

His stomach twists. This is about power. That’s all this is. The ability to control.

"You like it, don’t you?" His voice lowers, sharp and bitter. “Sitting here. Holding all the cards. Playing god.”

His legs are stiff under the table, his body burning with too many emotions at once.

"But that’s not what you are, is it? No, you are no god…”

The words spill out of him, twisted with disgust, his breath quickening. “You’re a sick fuck,” he mutters under his breath, the phrase like a curse he can’t shake. “That’s all you are.”

The Front Man says nothing for a long moment. He leans back. A slight shift. A quiet inhale.

And then, he speaks.

“And yet,” he murmurs, “you couldn’t look away from that chair.”

Gi-hun’s mind goes blank.

No.

No, he won’t let that thought take root. He won’t let himself - won’t let his body remember.

But it does.

Because he knows what the Front Man means.

He knows exactly what he’s referring to.

The way his gaze had lingered on that seat of power. The way something ugly and unspoken had coiled in his chest at the idea of standing there.

The way his body had reacted to it.

Fuck.

But he refuses to acknowledge it. He won’t.

No.

His voice cracks as he snaps back, trying to force the image from his mind. “I’m nothing like you.” The words taste bitter as they leave his mouth, but there’s no other option - he won’t let the Front Man see him break.

The Front Man’s gaze remains steady, unwavering, piercing through him like the weight of a thousand judgments. “Aren’t you?”

Gi-hun’s heart stutters.

The Front Man leans forward, his voice cool, like he’s unraveling a thread. “What did you do with the money, Player 456?”

Gi-hun freezes. He doesn’t want to answer, but the question hangs in the air, sharp and cold. He knows where this is going.

The Front Man continues. “When you had all that money after you won the Games, when you were drowning in it - did you help those in need? Did you help the homeless people you passed on the street? Or the families with children living in miserable conditions?"

His response comes quiet, but hard. “I was grieving.”

The Front Man hums, as if considering that. “And so that excuses it?”

“I didn’t know what to do with it.” His breath stumbles. “I couldn’t even look at it. That money was covered in blood."

"Then why keep it?" The Front Man tilts his head. "Why not give it away? If you truly despised it - if you wanted to be rid of it - why did you wait?"

Gi-hun hates this. Hates that the words slice so deep.

"You didn’t donate to charities," the Front Man continues. "Not once. You did nothing until you couldn’t live with yourself anymore. Until your conscience wouldn’t let you rest." A pause. Then, calmly: "You only gave money to Player 218’s mother and Player 67’s younger brother. And why?"

Gi-hun already knows the answer before it leaves the Front Man’s lips.

"Because you felt responsible for their deaths. Not because it was the right thing to do."

Gi-hun's breath hitches as he stares across the table. “That’s not true.” His voice is weak.

"Isn’t it?"

Gi-hun’s chest is heaving now. His fingers twitch against the table, his whole body wound too tight. “I wanted to help them.” His voice is strained, breaking at the edges. “I-I-”

But he didn’t.

Not for a whole year.

And the Front Man knows it.

He watches him crumble for a moment longer before lowering his voice. More precise. More cutting.

“And your daughter?”

Gi-hun’s entire body tenses. 

The Front Man lets the word linger in the air, heavy with judgment. “You didn’t even try to help her, did you? Didn’t care that she was in America, calling another man her father.”

That’s it. That’s fucking it.

Gi-hun stands up suddenly, his movements jerky, reaching across the table to grab the Front Man by the collar. His fingers dig into the fabric, gripping tight, desperate.

“You don’t get to talk about my daughter.” His voice is low, trembling with fury.

In an instant, the Triangle Guards at the door step forward - guns raised, their cold barrels aimed at his head. Gi-hun doesn’t flinch. His grip tightens on the Front Man’s collar.

For a moment, everything is still.

Then, the Front Man speaks again, calm, unfazed. “You didn’t try to give her a life in her home country. Did it hurt too much to look her in the eye after everything you became?”

Gi-hun freezes.

It’s as if the world has paused for a second. The question echoes inside his chest, tearing at him, making him feel smaller than he’s ever felt. He forces himself to breathe through the pain.

The Front Man leans in slightly, his tone colder than ever. “You had the money to fix everything, but you didn’t. Not for her. Not for anyone.”

Gi-hun’s breath hitches, his grip still tight on the collar, but he feels the cold metal of the gun pressed against the back of his head. He slowly loosens his hold, the reality of the situation sinking in. His body remains tense.

The Front Man speaks again, voice low, but relentless. “You didn’t try to take custody back, did you? Now that you could afford it - how could you not try to give her a better life?”

Gi-hun feels the guilt tear at him, but he refuses to let the Front Man see it, the way weight of the words press against him like an iron wall.

“I couldn’t,” Gi-hun spits, his voice raw with frustration. “I couldn’t fix it. You think I didn’t want to? You think I didn’t try? I was drowning in my own fucking mess!”

But the Front Man doesn’t relent, his words sharp, cutting through Gi-hun’s defense like a knife.  “By standing by, by doing nothing, you perpetuated the system,” he concludes. “You stood by their side, rather than help the people you claim to protect.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying Gi-hun with something almost resembling pity. "You judge me for watching, for letting it happen. How different are you, really? You had the power to change things.  And yet, you let it waste away. You’re no hero, Player 456."

Gi-hun’s breath hitches as he hears his own life, his failures, laid bare in front of him.

The Front Man moves the conversation forward, his voice steady, relentless.

“Let’s talk about your life before the Games.” His voice is smooth, precise. Cruel. “Before you were given a second chance.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move. He sits there, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“You were a failure.”  the Front Man continues. “You spent all the money your mother had scraped together - her life’s savings - on horse racing. Gambling. Losing over and over again, but always chasing the next win. The next high.”

Gi-hun clenches his jaw, the words slicing through him like a blade.

“You never tried to take custody of your daughter,” the Front Man murmurs. “Even before. Even when you could’ve. Even when you should’ve.”

The anger rises again, a violent, suffocating thing. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s not directed at the man across from him - it’s turning inward, consuming him.

The Front Man leans forward slightly, watching him crumble. And then, with a voice so calm it’s unbearable-

“But you came back to the Games.”

“I came back for them,” Gi-hun immediatly spits.  “To save the Players. You think I didn’t know what I was walking back into? I came back for them because someone had to. Someone had to stop this... madness.”

"You were addicted," the Front Man continues, smooth, almost thoughtful, ignoring Gi-hun. “That rush you felt gambling away everything you had.”

Gi-hun knows where this is going.

And he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Maybe,” the Front Man muses, voice dropping to something quieter, “you feel that high again now.”

Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

“No,” he mutters, but the word barely makes it past his lips.

The Front Man doesn’t stop.

“Tell me, Player 456, did you come back to try to save these people because it was the right thing to do?” He pauses, letting the weight of the words settle. Then - lower, sharper:

“Or were you looking for a purpose?”

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

The room feels too small.

The Front Man’s voice presses in. “You had nothing, didn’t you?” His words are soft now, almost a whisper. Dangerous. “You left the Games with everything. More money than you could ever spend. But your life? It was still empty."

Gi-hun shakes his head. No. No.

But the truth digs in.

“You let it rot,” the Front Man murmurs. “The money. Your life.” His voice drops even lower, just above a whisper now. “And you came back. Because you didn’t know what else to do.”

Gi-hun grits his teeth.

“Maybe you finally found purpose,” the Front Man continues. “Trying to end the Games. Trying to destroy me. Maybe that’s what gave you meaning.”

Gi-hun wants to shut him up. Wants him to stop talking.

Because it’s true.

It’s all true.

Before this, before coming back, his life had been nothing. He wandered, aimless, drowning in his own guilt, his own self-hatred. And then, the moment he had a cause, had something to chase, something to fight,  he felt alive again.

He swallows hard, his hands trembling where they grip the table.

The Front Man watches him. And then, the final blow.

"Now that I’ve presented you with this option-" The Front Man gestures idly, toward the empty chair that still lingers in the corner of the room, waiting, heavy with implication. “Your subconscious is already working, isn’t it?”

Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

No. No, don’t say it.

"Maybe you’re already thinking about it," the Front Man says, voice smooth. "Maybe you’ve realized that the high you’re chasing, that feeling of purpose, can be fulfilled… in other ways.”

He leans forward, his gloved hands resting against the table.

"Maybe," he murmurs, "you can finally direct that high toward something that truly has purpose."

The air is thick. Suffocating.

"Power."

Gi-hun’s breath stumbles, the word burrowing into his chest.

Power.

The word lingers, slithering beneath his skin. He feels it, pulsing, stretching, demanding space inside of him.

He clenches his jaw, rubs his face with both hands, as if he can scrub the word away, erase the way it makes something inside of him tremble. His breathing is uneven, and he knows it. He forces it steady, inhaling sharply, holding it in, but it doesn’t help. His fingers twitch against his temples, then fall away, trembling slightly as they return to the table.

"I’d rather rot in that cell," he grits out. He wants it to sound strong, final. But his voice betrays him. It wavers, just slightly, just enough that he knows the Front Man hears it. His hands curl into fists, like if he squeezes them tight enough, he can swallow the shaking, the doubt, the unbearable feeling creeping beneath his skin.

“I’d rather fucking starve in there than-”

The chair moves. The soft scrape against the floor feels deafening.

The Front Man rises, stepping toward him.

Gi-hun stiffens. He hates the instinct that flares through him, the way his body flinches ever so slightly, like it’s bracing for something. It forces him to look up, to meet the unreadable, endless dark of that mask, to feel the space between them close in.

He can’t move.

Then - a shift. A lift of a hand.

And the glove comes off.

It’s the first piece of real skin he’s seen. The first part of that man that isn’t covered, isn’t hidden.

And it’s… not what he expected.

The hand is rough, calloused, scarred. Hands that have done real things. Things a man like him, a man who commands from the shadows, should have no business doing.

And before he can process it, that hand is touching his own.

Gi-hun jerks, but doesn’t pull away.

"You’re shaking," the Front Man murmurs, voice impossibly soft, his thumb smoothing gently over Gi-hun’s wrist. The warmth of his bare skin seeps into Gi-hun’s bones, settling into the spaces he’d long since abandoned to cold.

“What are you doing?” Gi-hun’s voice trembles, desperate and uncertain. 

Gi-hun should be shoving him off. He should be fighting. But his limbs feel heavy, his mind slow, his breath unsteady.

The Front Man’s grip is firm, but not forceful. He holds Gi-hun’s hand like something fragile.

"Your heart is racing," he observes, voice quiet, unreadable.

Gi-hun knows it is.

Knows the rapid, traitorous rhythm pounding against the Front Man’s fingertips. Knows that the man feels it, knows it, understands it.

“Let go,” Gi-hun mutters, jerking his hand slightly, but the movement is weak, unconvincing.

And then the words that unravel him completely.

"Do you think I enjoy seeing you suffer?"

Heat flares low and deep, spreading through him in slow, unbearable waves. The dull, lingering arousal from before - the one he thought he’d pushed away - floods back, surging hot and sudden between his thighs.

His thighs clench. His hips press into the chair.

No.

No, no, no.

"You don’t have to fight it," the Front Man murmurs, his voice like velvet, coaxing, dangerous. "You feel it, don’t you? The need to be something more. The need to belong."

Gi-hun can’t breathe.

The Front Man’s fingers move to his palm. Not just touching, but tracing - mapping the paths etched into Gi-hun’s palm like they mean something, like he’s reading a story written into his skin. The slow drag of his fingertips glides over each crease and fold, following the lifeline with unbearable softness. It’s not casual. It’s careful. Like he’s learning him.

His thumb brushes over the center, lingering there just long enough for Gi-hun to feel it. A slow, featherlight stroke, back and forth, like a thought he doesn’t say out loud. Like a promise.

The touch is almost worshipful.

It’s so much. Too much.

Gi-hun’s pupils are wide now, blown. He knows they are. And the Front Man sees it. His gaze flickers, catching on them for just a second, before he looks down again, back to their hands.

And then his fingers move again.

Meeting Gi-hun’s.

A breath catches in Gi-hun’s throat.

He remembers.

The thoughts from earlier, the shameful, fleeting fantasy that had crept into his mind - what it would feel like, to touch him. To take the mask off. To let those hands guide him.

And now - now it’s real.

The Front Man speaks again, his voice a whisper, a promise.

"Fate brought you here. To this room. To me."

Gi-hun’s breath stumbles.

Their fingers move together now, shifting, barely touching.

The heat in his stomach coils tighter, pressing lower, aching, unbearable. His body wants this. He can feel the pulse in his wrist hammering, can feel his own fingers twitching, curling -

Almost intertwining.

And the Front Man waits.

Holds him like he would wait forever.

"Don’t be afraid."

The words sink into him.

Gi-hun’s eyes stay locked on their hands, on the way his own fingers begin to move, almost searching - almost gripping back.

His breath shakes.

He wants it.

God, he wants it.

The warmth, the grounding, the impossible intimacy of being held. Of not carrying everything alone.

But-

No.

His fingers tremble. He sees it happening - sees himself giving in, his body craving it.

And it terrifies him.

Gi-hun rips his hand away.

The loss of warmth is instant. A shock to his system. The air feels colder without it, his fingers burning where the touch had been.

He gets up from the chair and stumbles back, chest heaving, shaking.

The throbbing ache between his legs is still there, betraying him, humiliating him.

His voice is wrecked. "You can take that power," he spits the word, shaking his head, voice breaking, body trembling, "-and shove it up your ass."

Gi-hun stands there, waiting for a response, the Front Man’s words still echoing in his head. But nothing comes.

He feels the heat of the Front Man’s touch lingering, the memory of the warmth between their hands burning deep in his chest. He wants to run from it. He wants to scream at the absurdity of it. He never expected this - the temptation, the need he feels surging within him, despite everything.

The thought of staying here, of enduring another twisted moment of this hell, is unbearable. His thoughts rush, incoherent, every part of him screaming to escape.

“Please,” he rasps, his voice thin and strained. “Let me go back to my cell. I can’t-I can’t do this.”

“The Players will vote soon,” the Front Man states, almost matter-of-factly, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a shame you wish to leave now. You could watch the outcome.”

Gi-hun's stomach twists violently. The thought of sitting there, of watching the vote unfold - the faces of those who still hope, and those who have given up - it makes him want to scream. The weight of his helplessness presses down on him harder than anything else.

“No,” he breathes, voice barely audible. His hands shake. “Please. Just-just send me back. I can’t go through it again. I can’t.”

His words, desperate, feel like they’ve torn themselves from the very core of him. He hates the sound of them. Hates how weak he feels, how powerless. But he can’t stop it. He can’t stop begging. “Please,” he whispers, the plea tumbling from his lips unfiltered, untamed.

The Front Man watches him carefully, as though weighing the decision. After what feels like an eternity, he finally calls for the Guards. “Let him return to his cell,” he says.

Gi-hun stumbles backward, relief mixed with a sinking, heavy weight.

The guards approach, their hands cold. So cold. Unforgiving. They don’t touch with warmth or care - they grab him, rough and tight, pulling his arms behind him like a ragdoll. They yank him forward, forcing him toward the door.

Gi-hun looks back one last time at the Front Man. A final, fleeting moment of something - something almost like connection. But it's gone, as the world blurs, swallowed by darkness.

 

 

He’s in his cell again. Alone.

He falls onto the cot, his body still shaking with the adrenaline of the confrontation. He lays there, staring up at the ceiling.

But his thoughts… his thoughts betray him.

The arousal that had been burning so intensely before – it’s still there. He can feel it, hard and persistent, pressing against his pants.

Gi-hun swallows thickly, trying to ignore it, but it doesn’t go away. He wants to scream, to rip it out of his body.

But he knows the truth - he knows why it’s there.

It’s the isolation. The lack of touch. The sensory deprivation of this cell, this room where time moves too slowly and nothing ever changes.

It’s the Guards and their cold, rough hands. Their violence and their indifference. The brutality they force upon him with each grab, each pull. It’s the sharp contrast of how they treat him, of how they hold him, compared to that man.

The Front Man’s hands had been warm, his touch softer. Gentle, almost tender, compared to the Guards.

It made Gi-hun sick. Sick with longing, sick with confusion.

Besides, Gi-hun hadn’t been with anyone in years. Not since the first Games. Not since everything had shattered - since his world had turned into this endless nightmare. And now, this. This gnawing, sickening, desperate need. It has no place here.

Gi-hun’s hands shake as they hover over his pants. He could end it. Just a simple movement, a quick release, and the tension would be gone. He almost does.

Almost.

But then the disgust floods back in.

Because he knows what that arousal means.

It means he’s falling into a trap. It means he’s weakening, succumbing to the game, to the isolation.

He forces his hands away from his pants, dragging them up to his face instead, pressing his palms into his eyes like he can erase it.

But it’s so easy to imagine it again.

"Fate brought you here. To this room. To me."

"Don’t be afraid."

And as time drags on, and the vote looms closer, Gi-hun lies in his bed, the memory of the Front Man’s touch - his gentle, caring touch - haunting him.

 

 

Hours later, after everything settles, his thoughts refuse to leave.

Gi-hun sits against the wall, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the faint hum of the light above. He imagines the other Players - the ones he’d seen die, the ones who had fought and fallen.

The vote.

How many O’s are left? How many will vote X? Will they change their minds?

Will they finally choose to stop? Or will they choose the Games?

Is the money enough to make them finally want to leave?

Is it ever enough?

The door hisses open, the sound sharp in the cold, interrupting Gi-hun’s thoughts.

Gi-hun’s body tenses instinctively. He’s expecting the sharp, heavy sound of boots against his ribs. The cold splash of water meant to humiliate. He curls in on himself, fingers digging into his knees, bracing for the inevitable.

But nothing comes.

No boots. No brutality.

The footsteps are soft, hesitant.

Gi-hun lifts his head slowly, and then - there he is.

The Circle Guard.

Gi-hun’s breath stills in his throat as the Circle Guard crouches in front of him, close enough that the edges of their uniforms nearly brush. The sight is so strange, so wrong, that for a moment, Gi-hun forgets to breathe.

This isn’t how they move.

The Guards are swift. Unfeeling. They don’t crouch. They don’t meet his eyes. They don’t slow down.

But this one does.

He watches as the Guard reaches forward, and before Gi-hun can react, warm fingers press against his own, gently guiding his hands open.

Then - bread. Water. Placed into his palms, carefully, reverently, as if the act itself is sacred.

The weight of it settles against Gi-hun’s hands, heavier than it should be. His fingers tremble as they close around the food, around the only kindness he has been given in this place. His throat is raw, his voice a whisper, uncertain, almost afraid to break the moment.

"Thank you…" His voice is hoarse, dry. He swallows. "For what you did. Back in the courtyard. For stopping that Triangle Guard… when he tried to-”

He can’t finish the sentence.

The Guard does not respond. No nod, no shift in posture. Nothing.

Just silence.

But Gi-hun feels it. The weight of something unsaid, something waiting, something… watching.

Then, the Guard moves, reaching into his uniform pocket.

What is he doing?

Gi-hun’s breath stills as he sees the movement, as he watches gloved fingers withdraw something small and packaged.

More food.

Not scraps. Not leftovers meant to keep him barely alive. But real food. 

Biscuits. A can of tuna. Rations.

Gi-hun sees the symbols immediately. The Square, the Triangle, the Circle - emblems stamped onto the packaging. His stomach tightens. His mind reels.

Wait-

Is this the Guard’s own food?

Gi-hun's mind races. Why would he do this? Why is he risking it? He could be punished. He could lose everything for giving him this. 

The thought stabs at him, raw and cutting. And yet - the Guard places it in Gi-hun’s space, tucking it behind his back, the cold, metal can pressing against his skin.

Gi-hun’s hands shake, the food in his grip suddenly heavier than it should be. His head spins. His thoughts crash over one another, but no words come.

“What…?” The question barely escapes him, hoarse and uncertain, on the edge of a thought that feels too dangerous to voice.

But the Circle Guard doesn’t speak.

Instead, he lifts a finger to the smooth, featureless surface of his mask.

A silent command.

Gi-hun understands instantly. The cameras.

He forces himself to move, to act like nothing has happened, to hide the evidence before someone sees. His hands shift behind him, pressing the rations against the small of his back.

The Circle Guard’s gaze shifts. His eyes move to Gi-hun’s left hand - and in that instant, Gi-hun knows. He knows what the Guard is seeing. 

The scar.

The place where the knife had slashed through his skin, leaving behind a wound that never truly healed, that still bleeds in ways Gi-hun can’t name.

He can still feel the cold steel. He can still feel the pressure of the hand as it drove the blade deep into his flesh. He remembers the look in those eyes in that moment, the hatred, the rage. And the way that look had transformed, morphing into something far worse.

Gi-hun’s heart stutters in his chest. He feels the heat of the memory, the agony of the wound that will never fade. His childhood friend's final act. His sacrifice. Taking the same knife, the same blade, and stabbing it into his own throat. The blood. The pain. The unforgivable act. The way he had chosen to die rather than let Gi-hun save him.

Gi-hun’s chest constricts painfully.

And now the Circle Guard is staring at it. Staring at the scar. At the mark left by him, four years ago.

Gi-hun can’t let him see it. He can’t let anyone see it. Not now. Not like this.

He quickly pulls his hand away, hiding it in his other hand, burying the scar beneath the safety of his fingers. He shields it from the Guard’s stare. His heart is racing, the heat of shame burning through him.

But the Guard doesn’t look away. His eyes linger just a beat too long.

And then - that movement.

The same movement Gi-hun saw in the courtyard. The same head tilt, a subtle motion as if he’s trying to force himself not to look, not to see. As if he's shaking it off, trying to avoid the truth. Why?

Why is he doing this? Why does it matter? Why does he keep looking?

The Circle Guard stands, slow. His posture straightens, and he moves, his back turning to Gi-hun. The door is opening.

Gi-hun feels a panic surge within him, a desperate, irrational need to stop him, to understand why this is happening, to demand answers for the unbearable silence between them.

“Wait!”

The word erupts from him before he can stop it - raw, urgent, and shattered. The sound of his voice in the stillness rips through the air, and for a moment, everything freezes.

The Circle Guard stops, his back still turned, his body taut with tension. Gi-hun doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he called out. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

The Guard’s body is still, like a statue. The silence stretches.

And then, without a word, without even a glance, he leaves.

The door slides shut behind him.

And Gi-hun is left alone in pieces.

With too many questions, with a scar that will never fade, with grief that will never be undone.

And with the realization that he is still searching for something that was lost in that last Game, years ago.

 

 

Something drips.

The sound is slow, heavy, each drop hanging in the air too long, filling the silence with an unbearable weight.

Gi-hun trembles. His skin is slick, cold, and the fear coils around him, strangling his breath. Where is he? The question stirs in his mind, but he can’t answer it.

He looks around and -

He realizes - he’s in the courtyard, being showered with freezing water.

Naked. Cold. Vulnerable.

He’s on his knees, his hands too heavy to move.

He feels exposed. Exposed in a way he’s never felt before.

The water crashes down, and he gasps, trying to pull in air, but it feels like the world is drowning him. His thoughts are clouded, blurry.

And then-

A hand.

“Look at you.”

That voice. Low. Smooth.

Gi-hun's scalp burns, his head jerking back from the sharp tug. His breath is taken away, his throat constricting in fear. He’s too weak to resist. Too small.

“Can’t even get up on your own? Tch.”

The words scrape through him, cold and venomous. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is. He knows this voice. He knows the weight of it. The Triangle Guard.

His body trembles with fear. He’s frozen, too paralyzed to move, terrified to fight back. The Guard’s presence looms over him, silent, as if there is no escape.

Suddenly, the world shifts.

The cold fades, replaced with something warm.

The harsh water subsides, fading into a distant murmur, like a memory slipping away from the present.

Gi-hun blinks, trying to adjust. The world around him begins to change, and-

The sound of cicadas hums in the distance, steady and warm, filling the air with their relentless song. The smell of fresh earth, mingling with the faint scent of flowers, reaches his nose. The warmth of sunlight pours over him, the heat on his skin spreading, comforting. His feet are no longer pressed into the cold concrete. He’s standing.

But standing where?

The air feels different, lighter somehow. The brightness of the world around him shifts, blurring like an old photograph left too long in the sun, colors fading and blending together. He looks around, but everything feels off - too bright, soft - as if he's walking through a memory.

His gaze drifts downward, and for a moment, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.

Then - slowly, painfully - he realizes. He’s a child.

His hands are small, fingers thin and delicate, the skin soft and unmarked by the years. His arms are thinner, his legs too short to match the man he thought he was. He is dressed in a school uniform, the familiar, faded colors of a child’s past.

But everything feels... wrong.

The edges of the world blur, as if everything is slowly melting away. The ground beneath him feels soft, sun-warmed. The children’s laughter, the faint sound of a bicycle bell - it’s all there, but it’s fading like mist.

He’s outside his old school. But it’s slipping away.

No.

This can’t be real.

A sudden sharp sound. Laughter.

Gi-hun turns, heart in his throat. There, across the yard, standing still - the Triangle Guard. Masked. Silent.

Why? Why is he here?

The Guard stands frozen in place, staring. Watching. But there’s something wrong about the way he stands there. He shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t be here.

Gi-hun’s stomach tightens. He tries to look away but the Triangle Guard shifts, slowly, like the image of him is warping, twisting, contorting.

And then-

Three boys.

They stand in the spot where the Guard once was, their faces contorted in cruel smirks, their shadows stretching longer than they should. One of them steps forward, his sneer wide and mocking.

“What’s this, Gi-hun? What you got here?”

The bully kicks Gi-hun’s lunchbox to the ground, the lid popping open. His food spills out - egg and rice, the yellow of the egg and the white rice mixing, the colors bright and harsh against the gray pavement. The vivid contrast stings his eyes, and Gi-hun’s stomach tightens as he watches it scatter on the ground.

“What? You want this back?” The bully mocks, pressing his foot into the rice.

Gi-hun reaches out, his hands trembling, but before he can touch it-

A foot slams into his side.

Pain. It bursts through his ribs, sharp and sudden, making him crumble. His breath catches in his throat, vision blurring.

The laughter rises.

“You think you’re better than us?” One of them taunts.

A second kick.

Gi-hun crumples harder, the world spinning around him, everything tilting, like he’s sinking deeper into darkness. His ribs scream, his legs too weak to hold him up.

“Maybe we should teach you a lesson, huh?”

The leader raises his foot, ready to bring it down.

Gi-hun tries to lift his head, but his strength is failing him. He’s too weak. He can’t stop it. He can’t fight back. He can’t-

“Wait.”

The voice is soft, steady.

The bullies freeze.

Gi-hun blinks, his heart pounding. His mind races, confused.

He looks up, and-

The Circle Guard is there.

In the haze of the world around him, the bright pink of the Guard’s uniform stands out too much, too vivid in this soft, dreamlike world.

Gi-hun blinks again and the Guard is no longer standing there.

Instead, there’s a child. Smaller than Gi-hun. Younger.

Just a boy, standing in front of him, his posture firm but unthreatening. The boy’s eyes are wide with fear, but his voice is steady as he steps forward.

“Wait,” the boy repeats.

The bullies hesitate. They look at each other, thrown off by the boy’s presence.

“You don’t have to do this.”

The leader sneers, stepping forward. “And what? You gonna stop us?”

The boy doesn’t answer right away. He just steps forward, calm but steady.

“You’re bigger than him,” the boy says, his tone thoughtful, “but that doesn’t make you strong. Hurting him won’t make you feel better. It just makes you weaker.”

The bullies pause, thrown off. Their confidence begins to crumble.

The boy doesn’t flinch. He tilts his head, studying them. “It’s just food,” he says, as if the answer is obvious. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

The bullies blink, unsure now.

“What do you get from this? What’s the point of kicking him when he’s already down?” The boy’s voice remains steady, even quiet, but it holds a subtle authority now. 

The silence between them stretches, thick and uncomfortable.

The boy tilts his head more, eyes never leaving them.

“You already got what you wanted. His lunch is ruined. He’s on the ground. Is this really going to make you feel better?”

The leader clenches his jaw, his fists curling, but he doesn’t respond.

The boy steps forward again, his voice quiet, but full of certainty. “Does it feel good?”

The bullies glance at each other again, unsure now.

One of them scoffs, his voice dripping with annoyance. "What is this, a lecture?"

Another snorts, shaking his head. "Tch. Whatever."

They turn away and the tension in the air lifts like smoke.

The boy kneels in front of Gi-hun, his expression softening. He extends his hand, his eyes full of concern.

“You okay, hyung?”

Gi-hun looks at the boy’s hand, the warmth of it grounding him. Hyung - the word strikes him unexpectedly, yet there's a strange comfort in it.

He takes the boy’s hand, feeling the warmth seep into his cold skin as the boy pulls him to his feet.

Gi-hun looks down at the spot where his lunch is, the rice and egg now scattered and crushed.

Without missing a beat, the boy reaches into his bag.

“It’s okay. We can share mine.”

The plate of kimchi fried rice smells soothing, the warmth of it wrapping around Gi-hun. The boy pulls out his lunch with ease, and Gi-hun watches him for a moment, surprised by how naturally he offers it.

“Thanks.”

They sit together on the sidewalk, the warmth of the sun spilling over them. Gi-hun picks up the chopsticks first, and the boy follows suit. They take turns eating, passing the chopsticks back and forth, a gentle rhythm forming between them.

The bite of rice is warm, familiar - comforting, like home.

“You eat too fast,” the boy teases, scrunching his nose playfully. “Did you even taste that?”

Gi-hun grins, his eyes twinkling. “I’m a growing boy.”

The boy rolls his eyes with a laugh. “You’re already taller than me. That’s not fair.”

Gi-hun chuckles, nudging him with his shoulder. “You’re just short.”

The boy flicks a grain of rice at Gi-hun, laughing, and Gi-hun bursts out laughing too. The sound is easy, light, and it fills the space between them.

They keep eating, the warm sun on their faces, the smell of rice and spice lingering in the air. The moment feels simple, but special.

“Your mom makes the best kimchi fried rice,” Gi-hun says, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

The boy beams, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “Of course. No one else’s is as good as hers.”

A moment of comfortable silence passes as they continue eating, one bite at a time, savoring the meal together.

“Hyung?”

Gi-hun looks up, meeting the boy’s gaze.

“Can you give me a ride home?”

Gi-hun laughs softly, shaking his head. “When are you going to learn how to ride a bike?”

The boy’s face falls a little. He looks down at the ground, then pouts, his voice smaller than before. “I’m scared.”

Gi-hun tilts his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He reaches out, gently ruffling the boy’s hair, a small gesture of affection and reassurance. “Scared? You’re the bravest person I know. The way you stood up to those bullies with just words? You’re incredible. You can do anything, don’t let anything hold you back.”

The boy’s face lights up, a smile spreading across his features. “Really?”

Gi-hun grins, his protective instincts swelling. “Yeah, really. You’re strong.”

The boy nods eagerly, his excitement clear. “Thank you, hyung!!”

Gi-hun chuckles, playfully smirking. “I’ll teach you, but it’ll take time.”

The boy laughs, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s okay! I can’t wait!”

Gi-hun shakes his head at the boy’s enthusiasm.  He grabs the chopsticks again, ready to take another bite of the kimchi fried rice that still sits in his lap. But as he looks down-

His fingers hesitate.

Instead of the steaming, spicy rice, he sees two packages with the symbols of Square, Triangle, and Circle. Biscuits. A can of tuna.

Confusion grips him, his mind scrambling. Cold suddenly seeps in, crawling up his spine, settling into his bones. The air shifts, icy, and the colors around him begin to fade. The sound of cicadas, the distant laughter of children, it all begins to blur, replaced by the low, disorienting buzz of static. He looks to his side, frantic now.

Where is the boy? Where is he?

He tries to speak, his voice hoarse. “Hey, S-”

The name hangs on his tongue, incomplete. He blinks, and in that split second-

The Circle Guard is standing before him.

Gi-hun’s heart races. The mask. The pink uniform. The same cold gaze. Where did the boy go? Where did he-

He can’t breathe. The walls of the cell close in, suffocating, as his thoughts scramble to make sense of it.

And just like that the world shatters.

Gi-hun’s breath catches in his throat, his body jerking awake.

The rice, the laughter, the warmth - all of it dissolves into the cold silence of the cell - leaving Gi-hun unsure if any of it was ever real.

Notes:

Uff, that was intense! I need a moment to recover after those scenes between Gi-hun and the Front Man. Hope you all made it through in one piece!

And yes, Gi-hun may be completely clueless in the waking world, but his subconscious is definitely starting to catch on about that mysterious Guard... even if he’s too stubborn to admit it.

Thank you all for reading!

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hello, lovely readers!

I know it’s been forever since the last update. But as I’ve mentioned before, I am still fully committed to being an academic weapon™. Unfortunately, my Professors do not care about my fanfiction update schedule (rude, honestly), so here we are.

On the bright side, it’s a bit longer than usual, so I hope that makes up for the wait!

Now, before we get into it, Trigger Warning: this chapter contains the VIPs. Yes, those characters. You know who they are. If you experience increased heart rate, secondhand embarrassment, or the urge to throw your device, please proceed with caution.

One last thing. At some point, there’s a scene where I just had to include a specific piece of classical music. I know, I know - I’m forcing my interests on you. But hey, it’s also a chance for you to discover a beautiful piece if you don’t already know it! When you get to that part, feel free to click this link for the full experience.

Anyway, thank you for your patience, and I hope the wait was worth it! Enjoy!

 

The first thing he notices is the salt.

It spreads over his tongue, thick and oily, rich in a way that makes his body seize with shock. The bread they give him - the dry, tasteless, barely-there excuse for food - never did this. That bread was a ghost of nourishment, something that crumbled to dust the moment it touched his lips, something that filled his stomach with the idea of food rather than food itself.

But this - this is food.

The tuna is dense, packed with a briny tang that seeps into the crevices of his teeth. His tongue runs over the slick texture, a thin layer of oil clinging to the roof of his mouth. Fat. Protein. Substance. 

The biscuits are different. Dry but solid, snapping cleanly between his teeth instead of disintegrating into sand like the stale bread he’s used to. They leave behind a sweetness - subtle, almost imperceptible - but enough that it lingers at the back of his throat.

Too much flavor. Too much life.

His body wants to devour it. All of it. Right now.

But he can’t.

Gi-hun sits hunched on his bed, back pressing hard against the cold wall, palms tucked deep into the pockets of his white tracksuit, where the small package of biscuits and the can of tuna are hidden. He has to be careful, has to be discreet. The food is his, but it is also forbidden.

Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip inside the pocket, pressing against the crinkled plastic. His movements are slow, calculated, hidden in the folds of his sleeve. A piece of biscuit. The tiniest flake. He pinches it between his fingers, pulls it free, and in one swift motion, he brings his hand up to his face.

The motion is casual. A scratch of the nose. A flick of the thumb against his lips. The biscuit is gone. Swallowed. Forgotten.

A crumb threatens to fall. He catches it with his thumb, presses it against his skin until it sticks, then licks it away.

He won’t waste a single molecule.

Another movement. Another piece.

His fingers slip into his pocket again, searching for more. The tuna is harder. Wet, sticky, threatening to cling to his skin if he’s not careful. He pinches a bit between his fingertips, forces himself to move slow, to act natural. As if any of this is normal. As if the walls aren’t watching him.

Chew slow. Swallow slower.

Again.

Fingers slip back into the pocket, find another crumb of biscuit. Move. Hide. Bring it to his lips. Act natural.

But something is wrong.

His body knows it before his mind catches up. A feeling - small at first, creeping in slow, slow, slow. An itch in the base of his skull, a weight settling over his shoulders.

He stills.

Someone is watching him.

Not the cameras. Not the Front Man.

No. Something closer.

A breath catches in his throat. The sensation creeps in slow, like ice spreading under his skin.

His fingers freeze in his pocket.

Nothing has changed. Nothing should have changed.

But suddenly, he is not alone.

A shape stands before him. Tall. Silent. Watching.

The Circle Guard.

But Gi-hun didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t feel the temperature shift, the air move, the fabric of the room bending around another presence.

But the Guard is there.

And he has always been there.

Gi-hun doesn’t move. His fingers curl around the last remnants of the tuna in his pocket, pressing it into his palm, grounding himself in the feel of it - real, real, real.

The Circle Guard tilts his head slightly. “You eat too fast. Did you even taste that?"

The words shouldn’t sound so familiar. And yet they settle over him like a memory. Like something old. Like something from a time before all this, before the hunger, before the white walls and the buzzing light, before blood and betrayal and survival at all costs.

 

---

 

He’s eleven, legs swinging under a wooden bench, feet too big for his thin ankles. The candy in his palm is warm from his grip, sweat clinging to the wrapper.

"Want one?" Gi-hun asks, already peeling back the bright plastic, grinning.

The boy beside him doesn’t look up from his notebook. "Sure."

Gi-hun dangles the candy between two fingers, holding it out invitingly. The boy’s hand twitches, hesitating for only a moment before he begins to reach for it, fingers stretching toward the treat. But just as he’s about to grasp it, Gi-hun yanks it away with a sharp flick of his wrist, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Ah-ah, tell me I’m handsome first."

The boy scowls, rolls his eyes, shoves his pencil behind his ear. "Hyung, just give it to me."

"Nope, sorry, gotta hear it first." He leans back, grinning wider.

The boy groans, tilts his head back in exasperation, then finally - "You're the most beautiful boy in all of Korea. Can I have my candy now?"

"Eh, could’ve put a little more heart into it." But he tosses the candy anyway, watches as deft fingers catch it midair, the plastic crinkling in the boy’s palm.

Gi-hun unwraps a candy for himself, popping it into his mouth.

A moment passes, the quiet rustling of the wind through the trees.

"You eat too fast," the boy says suddenly, unwrapping the candy.

"What?"

"You always eat too fast. Did you even taste that? You just inhaled it. What’s the point of eating sweets if you don’t actually enjoy them?"

Gi-hun scoffs, pops another candy into his mouth. "I enjoy them just fine."

The boy shakes his head. "You're impossible."

 

---

 

The memory hits like a train.

Gi-hun's body locks up, breath stuttering in his chest. That wasn’t real. That wasn’t now.

That was when he was a kid, sitting outside after school, wasting time before heading home, tossing candy into a too-clever boy’s hands.

That boy is dead.

He died. He fucking died.

Gi-hun blinks. Once. Twice. Too fast.

The guard tilts his head ever so slightly, like he’s observing him, studying him.

"You blink too much when you're confused. Just like you're doing now."

His stomach lurches. No. No, no, no.

How would this Guard know that?

 

---

 

He’s fourteen, hunched over his desk, chewing the end of his pencil, scowling down at the paper in front of him.

"This is stupid," he mutters.

"You’re stupid," the boy beside him says, flipping through the textbook.

"I don’t need trigonometry. Who even uses this in real life?"  

"People who don’t want to fail math, maybe."

Gi-hun grunts, scribbles something messy on the page, then crosses it out. "It makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense. Here, look-" The boy leans in, tapping his pencil against the paper. "This is the hypotenuse. And this angle is 30º. So-"

Gi-hun stops listening. He’s watching the way the boy’s brow furrows, the way his fingers twitch against the page, the way he explains something he isn’t even learning yet.

"Why are you even helping me? You don’t even take this class yet."

The boy sighs. "Because I’d rather explain it to you than listen to you whine about it for another hour."

"Yeah? Well, I’d rather throw myself out the window than do another equation."

"Don’t tempt me."

Gi-hun laughs. The boy laughs too, shaking his head.

"You blink too much when you don’t understand something."

"What?"

"You do. Just now. You blinked, like, five times in a row. It’s obvious when you’re lost."

Gi-hun blinks again, slower this time. "Oh, shut up."

The boy grins. "See? You’re doing it again.”

 

---

 

No one noticed things like that. No one except him.

Not even his mother noticed those things. Not his ex-wife, not his daughter.

But he did.

Because he was observant. Because he always saw too much. Because he had always been watching. Noticing the little things.

The nervous habits. The flickers of thought before they even reached his mouth.

The way he chewed his nails down to the skin before a big test.

The way he shifted his weight when he was lying.

The way his lips parted - just slightly, just a breath - when he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The Circle Guard hasn’t moved. But he’s still talking.

"You used to tap your pencil three times before writing an answer, like you were trying to wake up your brain."

"And when you’re about to lie, you touch your chin first, just for a second - like this."

Gi-hun’s hand flies away from his face. Fuck. 

"And your shoulders tense before you start laughing. You think no one notices, but I do."

Gi-hun’s shoulders tense.

A breathless pause.

The words are ringing in his ears, sharp, stinging, the taste of them like metal. He tries to speak, tries to say anything - but it’s too late.

A sharp, horrible laugh rips from his throat, broken and ragged, shoving its way past his lips before he can stop it.

It won’t stop.

His stomach clenches, his ribs ache, but the laugh just keeps tearing out of him, and he can’t tell if it’s actually funny or if he’s just losing his fucking mind.

Because he is.

He is.

He’s talking to a ghost.

A ghost that’s standing right in front of him, breathing, watching, remembering.

How can he remember?

How does he know?

He is dead.

He is dead.

Dead dead dead dead dead.

"You always-"

"Shut up."

The words tear out of him like a gunshot.

His hands claw at his hair, fisting into his scalp, his lungs heaving, his vision tunneling, spinning, breaking apart.

"You always-"

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Hyung-“

"Leave me alone! SHUT UP!" His voice breaks, desperation bleeding into every syllable, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths.

Silence.

His ears ring. His pulse slams in his throat.

And when he finally looks up-

The room is empty. The Circle Guard is gone.

Like there was never anyone there.

His hands tremble as he drags them down his face, fingers digging into his skin, into his reality. He's going insane.

The food is still in his mouth. He swallows it like a stone.

Gi-hun tries to hold it together, just for a moment, just enough to keep his composure. He can’t fall apart. Not now. But the walls feel too close, too suffocating. The air presses down on him, thick and heavy, and the sound of his own heartbeat fills his ears like a drum.

Just hold it together. Please, hold it together.

But then, the first sob comes. Quiet, soft, like a whisper, escaping before he can stop it. And then another. His breath hitches, and his hands tremble as he presses them to his face, desperate to hold it in. But the tears are relentless.

His chest shakes with the force of it, each sob pulling more and more of him into this dark, suffocating place where he can’t escape.

His throat burns as he gasps for air, but it’s like breathing underwater. The tears are unstoppable, falling freely now, his body shaking uncontrollably as his mind slips further from him.

“I can’t take it. I can’t take it anymore.”

He speaks the words out loud, his voice cracking. They don’t sound like his voice. They sound hollow. Broken.

“Please... please...” he whispers to the walls, his words so quiet they’re barely audible. But no one answers. The buzzing of the light above only grows louder, suffocating him more with its hum.

“Please...” he mutters to the air again, his voice breaking. “Someone help me.” But the words hang in the air, swallowed up by the walls. They don’t care. No one’s coming. He’s alone.

Alone.

The sound of his sobbing fills the small, sterile cell, but it feels so empty. His mind is slipping, and he knows it. He knows it now.

What’s real? What’s real when everything inside you is breaking? What’s real when even your own mind can’t keep the pieces together anymore?

His hands shake uncontrollably as he picks up the last of the food, the biscuit package, the tuna can. He crams the last bits of it into his mouth, but it’s not hunger anymore. It’s just something to do - something to grasp at. Something that will make him feel like he’s in control, even for a moment. Even just for a second.

His hands are shaking, his fingers trembling as he tries to hide the empty packages. He tries to fold the biscuit package carefully, tucking it into the tuna can, his mind racing as he works. His breath is too quick, too shallow.

Where can he hide it?

His pockets aren’t deep enough. It’s not enough. The panic rises in his chest again. He looks at the toilet, the space between it and the wall. The small, filthy gap. It’s perfect.

He shoves the can into the gap, cramming it behind the toilet. His pulse is pounding in his ears as he presses it into place. No one will find it. No one will know. No one can know.

The thought doesn’t comfort him.

 

 

Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time doesn’t mean anything here.

The door hisses open. Two Triangle Guards and a Square Guard step into the the room.

Gi-hun freezes.  His eyes flick to the corner of the room - at the toilet, at the hidden can. His breath catches.

Did they see?

Gi-hun’s stomach churns, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He can’t make it stop. The panic is too much.

His mind screams. Are they here to punish him?

His eyes flick from one guard to the next, but all he can see are their cold, expressionless masks.

The Square Guard speaks, his voice cold and flat.

“Player 456. Up.”

He doesn’t respond. His body is frozen, like it’s not even his anymore. His legs feel too heavy to move.

The Triangle Guards are already moving in, grabbing him roughly, pulling him up with too much force. His body jerks against their grip, and his breath is knocked out of him. The ground shifts beneath his feet, and his legs almost give way.

They blindfold him and drag him out of his cell.

They walk for what feels like forever. More stairs. More turns. Each step twists further into the unknown. The path isn’t familiar. The direction is wrong. It’s too long, too disorienting. This isn’t the route to the Front Man’s quarters. He knows it. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“What? Want to get all cozy with the boss again?” one of the Triangle Guards says, voice thick with mockery “Yeah, we saw you were all hot and bothered. Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon enough.”

It hits him harder than anything else. Gi-hun’s face flushes with shame, as the humiliation floods through him, wrapping itself around his body.

They noticed. They saw him react to the Front Man. He tries to steady himself, but the panic claws its way up his throat.

More turns. More stairs.

And suddenly a door opens, and Gi-hun is pulled into a new room. His legs feel unsteady, his head spinning, but he’s too terrified to protest. They lead him further, and he can feel the temperature shift.

And suddenly… the touch.

He knows it. He knows those gloves.

Gi-hun doesn’t need to see him to know. The way the leather glides over his skin. He remembers the sensation from before - the care with which the Front Man had handled him.

The blindfold is slowly removed. The leather of the gloves withdraws from his skin, leaving a shiver in its wake.

The Front Man steps back, his mask gleaming under the soft light of the room. His voice is calm, almost gentle. “Welcome, Player 456.”

Gi-hun doesn’t respond. He can’t. His eyes are drawn to the room around him, to the opulence that feels so wrong.

The walls are a deep, endless blue, like the ocean at midnight. Starfish are embedded in the walls, but they don’t feel natural. Fishing nets hang, carefully draped, their threads hanging like tangled memories.

Glass lamps hang from the ceiling - jellyfish, seashells, but not the kind you’d find at the beach. These are distorted, wrong. Their soft, eerie glow casts strange shadows, flickering as though they, too, are breathing.

The furniture... it’s hard to even call it that. Shell-shaped sofas, their smooth curves beckoning him to sit, to rest. But there's no comfort in them. They feel off, alien, like they exist only to unsettle. Servers in black masks move silently between the sofas, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

And the figures - human models, their bodies naked and painted in the bright, unnatural colors of sea creatures. Clownfish. Octopus. Whale shark. They lie scattered across the floor, contorted, broken in ways that make Gi-hun’s stomach churn. Their eyes are empty. Lifeless. It’s obscene.

And then - the men. Six of them. Sitting in the shell-shaped sofas. 

Their golden masks gleam under the low light, shapes of animals carved into the metal - Lion, Buffalo, Deer, Panther, Bear, Eagle.

They’re talking, but the words - Gi-hun can’t understand them. They speak in English, but the language feels foreign, detached.

They laugh. It’s low, almost a growl, the sound of men who have seen it all, done it all. It doesn’t feel human.

The clinking of glasses punctuates their conversation, the sound of crystal meeting crystal, sharp and jarring. It echoes in the stillness of the room, like a reminder of everything Gi-hun isn’t - everything he doesn’t belong to.

Music drifts through the air. Soft. Beautiful. Classical. Orchestral. The sound wraps around him like a delicate thread, pulling him in, making him stop in his tracks.

He knows this piece.

La Mer. Debussy.

His daughter used listen to it, among other classical pieces. She’d share her earphones with him, her eyes bright with excitement as she told him about the music.

“Appa, listen,” she would say, nudging him, smiling. “It’s beautiful, no? Just like the ocean.”

Gi-hun couldn’t always understand the music, but he’d listen anyway, trying to grasp the emotion behind it, trying to understand her. She was so bright, so eager, explaining it to him with such passion. “Listen to the waves. It’s the ocean. You hear it?”

She’d make him hear it, even if he didn’t always get it. But he tried. For her.

And yet, here, in this place, it feels wrong. It feels like a betrayal. The beauty of the music clashes with the ugliness of the room, the coldness of the men, the eerie atmosphere. It shouldn’t be playing here, not in this twisted place.

He shakes his head, his chest tightening as the music continues to play in the background.

The Front Man’s voice breaks the moment, calm and detached.

“Player 456...”.

Gi-hun doesn’t understand the rest - his words blur in the air, the English too foreign, too distant for him to grasp.

The six men stop talking. The laughter dies down. The clinking of glasses stops.

And for a moment, the room is silent.

The men turn their heads toward him.

Gi-hun flinches, his body instinctively recoiling from their gaze. But before he can retreat, a hand lands on his shoulder - warm, firm, and impossibly familiar.

The Front Man’s touch lingers, and for a moment, it feels like the only thing holding him together. His mind screams at him to pull away, to reject the comfort of that hand. This is the man who killed his friends. The man who’s broken him, starved him, trapped him in this hell. But in this room, surrounded by these grotesque figures, the Front Man’s presence is the only thing that feels real. The only thing that feels safe.

“Listen,” the Front Man murmurs, his voice low and almost imperceptible. “You’ll be talking to the VIPs now. They’re the benefactors of the Games, the ones who spectate. They wish to talk to you.”

Gi-hun almost laughs at that. “Oh, great. The entitled assholes who get off on watching people die. How lucky am I?”

The Front Man’s grip tightens slightly on his shoulder, but his voice remains even. “You will behave.”

Gi-hun clenches his jaw, still furious, still disgusted by the idea of speaking to those monsters. But the Front Man’s tone is final, and the cold, suffocating weight of the situation settles back over him.

“Move,” the Front Man commands, his voice cutting through the chaos in Gi-hun’s mind.

Gi-hun doesn’t want to obey. He wants to fight, to tear himself away from this man who’s both his captor and his only anchor in this nightmare. But his legs move anyway, carrying him forward like a puppet on strings. The Front Man’s hand stays on his shoulder, guiding him, and Gi-hun hates how much he needs it.

When they reach the front of the room, the Front Man’s hand drops away. He’s exposed now, standing in front of those men with nothing to shield him from their predatory gazes. But he can still feel the Front Man behind him, his presence like a shadow, cold and unyielding.

The men are talking, their voices a blur of English and laughter. Gi-hun catches fragments – 456, Korean, Games - but the words don’t make sense. His head spins, his heart pounding in his chest.

He looks back at the Front Man, his eyes pleading for something – anything - but the man just stands there, impassive. The silence between them stretches, and in that moment, Gi-hun wonders if the Front Man even sees him at all.

Then, as if making a decision, the Front Man speaks, his voice cutting through the haze of noise. “This inconvenience,” he says, his tone cold and detached, “I expected it.”

Gi-hun blinks, confused. The Front Man signals to one of the black-masked servers, and the man approaches with a tray in hand. Seven small, sleek devices. One in white, the others in black.

The Front Man picks up the white device and hands it to Gi-hun.

“Put this on.”

Gi-hun stares at it. The device is smooth, polished. It feels wrong in his hand. Like something he doesn’t want to touch. He looks around, at the six men. They’re eager, too eager. Their eyes are practically gleaming as they take their own devices.

Gi-hun doesn’t understand. He stares at the Front Man, his hands shaking.

“What... what is this?”

“It’s for translation,” the Front Man explains. His voice is so clinical, like he’s discussing something insignificant. “It’ll help you understand.”

Gi-hun feels his stomach twist. He feels sick.

“No,” he mutters, his voice raw. “Why the fuck would I want to hear what these sick bastards have to say?”

The words spill out before he can stop them. His chest tightens as the anger rises - hot, relentless. His hands tremble, but he doesn’t put the device on. He can’t. He won’t.

“Put. It. On.”

Gi-hun freezes. The command is sharp, final, and for the first time, he hears something in the Front Man’s voice that makes his blood run cold. It’s not a request. It’s an order.

The VIPs are watching him now, their laughter dying down, their eyes wide with anticipation.

Gi-hun looks at them - at the masks. At the way they’re all waiting for him. It’s too much. 

Do it. Just do it.

He raises the device to his ear, his fingers trembling, and snaps it into place. The moment it clicks, the world shifts. The voices - those same, repulsive voices - are clearer now.

"Ah, the return of the winner," Lion Mask purrs, his voice dripping with mockery. He lets the words hang in the air, savoring them like a sick delicacy. "You made the Games far more... interesting, didn't you? But really, you shouldn’t have helped the other Players. You ruined the fun."

The words hit Gi-hun like a punch to the gut.

The laughter that follows is sharp, venomous - twisting, curling, a sound that doesn’t belong to anything human.

Panther Mask’s voice cuts through the noise, low and predatory. "Yeah, you’re a fighter, aren’t you?" The words ooze something slick, something vile. "I think you’ll be more fun once you’re broken. But I gotta admit… there’s something beautiful about a man with fight left in him. Makes everything sweeter when it’s finally gone."

Gi-hun’s jaw clenches. The smile behind the mask flashes in his mind - leering, grotesque. He wants to claw it off, rip it away, but he can’t. He’s trapped. Exposed.

His eyes dart to the Front Man. Do something. Stop this. But the Front Man doesn’t move. Cold. Unfeeling. A statue in black.

"The Games were getting predictable this year," Deer Mask murmurs. "But you, you, spiced things up! That little rebellion of yours, oh, it was thrilling. Too bad that one Player started shooting at the cameras. Ruined the fun, really. We didn’t get to see the deaths properly." He pauses, tilting his head, feigning curiosity. "Like your little friend - what was his number again?"

Gi-hun’s world tilts.

His little friend?

The air grows heavy, pressing down on him, suffocating.

"Player 390," Panther Mask answers, casual, like he’s talking about a card game.

Jung-bae. Jung-bae.

Gi-hun’s hands tremble. His vision blurs. The memory crashes over him - blood pooling beneath Jung-bae’s body, the Front Man’s voice cold and final: "Now witness the consequences of your little game."

The gunshot. The body hitting the ground.

Rage surges through him, hot and uncontrollable. It should’ve been him. He was the one who started this. He dragged them all into that doomed, desperate rebellion. He should’ve been the one to die. Not Jung-bae.

His eyes lock onto the Front Man. You killed him. Just to send a fucking message. 

"390, that’s the one," Deer Mask continues, voice too casual, too detached. Gi-hun’s eyes dart over that man, drawn in against his will. "And what’s up with that? How come you’re so unfortunate to have friends, people you know, playing with you both times you’re in the Games?" He leans back. "First, it was, uh… What was it? Player 218, right? And now Player 390. Bad luck, don’t you think?”

Gi-hun feels the tightness in his throat, the tears that are threatening to spill, but he swallows them down, fighting the flood that’s threatening to break through. He can’t let them see.

Buffalo Mask leans forward now, his voice oily and smooth, like it’s all part of a sick joke. "Why didn’t you kill Player 218?" he sneers. "That would’ve made things so much more entertaining."

You disgusting piece of shit, Gi-hun thinks. But the words that escape are broken, jagged.

"I… I didn’t… I couldn’t," he whispers, his throat tight. He can barely breathe. "You... you don’t understand... You have no fucking idea what that… what it meant."

The laughter that follows feels like shards of glass against his skin. He’s nothing more than a joke to them. Just a fucking joke.

“Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them,” Eagle Mask murmurs, his voice soft, as if quoting something sacred, something profound. As if it means anything in this hell they’ve built. “Isn’t it strange?” he continues, voice lilting, dangerous. “The way we carry our dead with us?”

“But... it was kinda poetic, wasn’t it?” Lion Mask interrupts, grinning like a devil. “Two childhood friends, the last ones standing, fighting each other to the death. What are the odds, huh? Was it fate?” 

Fate?

Gi-hun’s voice comes out in a strangled gasp, as if the words themselves are choking him. "Fate?" He laughs bitterly, his voice shaking with fury. "Fate? You fucking think it was fate?"

His voice cracks, a jagged sound, and before he can stop it, the tears start falling. They burn, streaking down his face, because they’ve pushed him too far.

He’s beyond holding it in now.

"You sick fucks," he screams. His voice breaks, raw with pain, but it doesn’t matter anymore. His words are weaponized now, every one of them a scream of defiance, a battle cry in the face of them all.

"You think this is fate? You think my life, their lives, are just a fucking game to you?"

The laughter only grows louder. More venomous. They laugh, as if it’s all just a show. As if his pain doesn’t matter.

Bear Mask sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. “You were too soft to kill Player 218, weren’t you? Guess you got lucky he did it himself.”

Gi-hun’s insides twist at the mention of that number. His breath stumbles, as the words sink in.

“Yeah, he was weak to live with his own sins,” Bear Mask continues, a sick smile in his voice. “Maybe he wasn’t the strong man you thought he was.”

The words hit Gi-hun like a sledgehammer. The grief. The anger.

It rips through him, tearing open old wounds that haven’t had a chance to heal.

His feet move before his brain can catch up. The fury surges through him, raw and untamed. His hands tremble, shaking with the desperate need to make them feel it - what they did to him. To him.

“What do you know about him?” The words fly from his mouth, vicious and unforgiving. “He fucking died, and you-“

Before he can take another step, a hand grabs his shoulder.

The Front Man’s hand.

Gi-hun stumbles back, pulled effortlessly, crashing against the Front Man’s chest.

The heat - the presence of it. The warmth. The weight of that hand still pressing into him.

It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel familiar. It shouldn’t feel anything. But it does.

Gi-hun freezes for a second, torn between the harsh sting of humiliation and the undeniable pull of what’s been drilled into him.

“Let me go,” he hisses. His words are ragged, desperate. His throat is tight with the fury that won’t stop building. “Let me fucking go!”

But it doesn’t matter. He fights against the hold, but it’s like pushing against stone. The grip doesn’t budge. Doesn’t move.

It’s pointless. All of it.

And then - laughter.

“You’re such a good little pet, aren’t you?” Panther Mask’s voice cuts through the silence, dripping with something sickening. “You know your place. You’re just waiting. Waiting to be put back in line.”

Gi-hun’s stomach churns, the words sinking in like poison. A pet?!  thinks. He will not be reduced to that.

But the humiliation is so thick, it suffocates him. He spins around, angry, desperate. His movements are fueled by pure, unrelenting rage. He can’t stop. He can’t think. His fists clench.

“You fucking sick bastards!” His voice cracks on the words. “What the hell do you know about any of this? How dare you talk about him?!”

But before he can go any further, the Front Man’s grip tightens again, pulling him back like a marionette on a string. He can’t escape it. Can’t escape him.

Gi-hun feels the weight of it - the full, unrelenting control. The cold that seeps in.

“Stop,” the Front Man says. His voice is calm, unfeeling. "That behavior won’t get you anywhere."

Gi-hun stares at him, his eyes wild. "Let go of me!"

His voice cracks, sharp with the tension that’s been building for too long. Every part of him screams to break free. To fight. To tear through everything that has kept him here - kept him trapped in this hell.

But the Front Man doesn’t let go.

"Not until you calm down," he says, voice even, like a damn instruction.

Gi-hun glares at him, the fire in his eyes burning with a fury that could swallow the world whole. Calm down? Calm down??!

He’s not calm. He’s fucking burning inside.

The rage, the humiliation - they twist inside of him. How dare he tell him to calm down?

But as the seconds drag on, the fire inside him begins to wither, not because the fury is gone, but because it has nowhere to go. The Front Man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to meet his rage, doesn’t give him an opening. There’s no fight to be had, no ground to take.

Slowly, bit by bit, the tension in Gi-hun’s shoulders loosens - not in surrender, but in the heavy, bitter realization that this is pointless.

Finally, he lowers his head, trying to quell the storm that threatens to drown him. His voice trembles, but he speaks through gritted teeth. “Fine.”

“Now, will you stop?” The Front Man asks, his tone cool, almost bored.

Gi-hun doesn’t answer immediately. He tries. But his body is betraying him, every instinct telling him to fight, to destroy.

But he nods, reluctantly.

“Good,” the Front Man murmurs, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice. “Now, go sit.”

Gi-hun’s his eyes flick around the room, like a caged animal searching for a way out. There it is. A free shell-shaped sofa.

Fuck this. Fuck it all.

He hates himself for obeying. Hates that, once again, he’s nothing more than a dog on a leash.

But he’s tired. Tired of standing here in front of these monsters. Tired of feeling like a thing, a display, a toy for them to play with.

So, he sits.

His stomach churns. The weight of the order - the utter humiliation - sinks in like a stone, but there’s nothing left to fight with. Nothing left to prove.

The Front Man stands tall, unmoving, and announces: “The Fifth Game will begin in a few moments.”

The VIPs perk up, their excitement palpable, like vultures sensing the end of something.

They can’t wait for more blood.

“Yesterday’s vote was another draw,” the Front Man continues, his voice low and cold. "16 O’s, 16 X’s. Naturally, the O’s killed almost all the X’s. It was a total massacre in the dormitory."

Gi-hun’s stomach drops. He knew that was a possibility.

"Only 20 remain from the 32 who survived the Fourth Game."

Gi-hun’s pulse quickens. Twelve people died yesterday?! How could this happen? How could they do this?

"They voted again this morning," the Front Man says, a trace of amusement in his voice. "7 X’s, 13 O’s. The Games continue."

Lion Mask leans forward, his voice dripping with mock admiration. “The voting system, after every Game - it’s a fine addition. Adds suspense. More killing. What else could we ask for?”

The words cut deep.

A giant plasma screen flickers on. The faces of the remaining players appear one by one, some of which Gi-hun recognizes: Hyun-ju (Player 120), Geum-ja (Player 149), Jun-hee (Player 222), Dae-ho (Player 388). And Player 044, whose name Gi-hun doesn’t recall, and the boy from the Fourth Game, Player 125.

They’re all here. All still standing.

Gi-hun’s breath catches. For a moment, there’s a small flicker of relief. The people he’s known, the people closest to him - they’re still alive.

But that relief is fleeting. The masked men are already laughing, their voices cutting through the air like daggers.

“You placed your bets for this round?” Panther Mask asks, already looking past the remaining Players as if they’re nothing more than pawns.

“I’ve completely lost hope for Player 388,” Lion Mask murmurs, his tone laced with disappointment as he shakes his head. “He showed his true colors during the rebellion. Cowardice at its finest.  Though, I’ll admit... he did well in the Fourth Game. Can’t deny that.” He pauses, a sly smile creeping across his face. “But... my money’s on 120. He’s the safest bet.”

“120?!” Buffalo Mask scoffs. “The man who dresses like a woman?”

Lion Mask chuckles. “Yeah, he might be a few screws loose upstairs for dressing like that, but you can’t deny his performance. He’s been nothing short of spectacular in every Game. And in the rebellion, too. Even though we don’t have the footage, the reports say he held himself together like no one else. The guy has grit. More than most of these Players.”

Gi-hun’s fists clench. Screws loose?

Fuck them.

“Hey... and what about that pregnant girl,” Deer Mask’s voice is thick with mockery. “The cameras were focusing too much on her last night. She seemed... weird. What happened to her?”

Gi-hun feels the room tighten around him. He already knows what’s coming.

“Her waters broke during the massacre” Eagle Mask says, a grin in his voice.

Gi-hun’s heart stops. 

No.

“So she’s in labour right now?” Buffalo Mask asks.

Eagle Mask laughs. “Yeah, who knows? Maybe the baby will be born during the game. That’d be a first, wouldn’t it?”

The laughter is unbearable.

Gi-hun feels the rage build, deep and wild, threatening to explode. This isn’t a game.

He pushes off the sofa, his fists clenched. He’s not going to let this slide. He can’t.

“You’re forcing her to play?” he spits. “You’re actually going to make her play in this condition?”

The Front Man turns to him, silent for a moment. Then, coldly, like he’s already dismissed the thought, he speaks:

“The Games are fair. All Players face the same risks.”

Gi-hun’s rage flares again. "Oh, you and your sense of equality," he spits, voice trembling with fury. "What a pathetic excuse! You're just feeding your pigs, giving them a show. What's next, huh? A child? Hell, why not throw in a baby and let them bet on how long it lasts?"

Buffalo Mask leans forward, sneering. “Watch your mouth, dog. You seriously need to control your pet better.”

Gi-hun steps closer, his body radiating pure rage. "You're really going to let her play? Let her die?! Only a monster would do that.”

The Front Man doesn’t flinch. “Many women have given birth in war zones. This isn’t unprecedented.”

Gi-hun laughs - bitter, broken. "War zones? No. You didn’t just compare these sick, depraved Games to a war zone. This isn't war, this is your playground. A circus for the rich to watch us suffer.”

The Front Man’s seems to remain unbothered. Calm. But then-

“I’ve been benevolent,” he says, his voice soft, almost too soft. “But you’ve crossed a line.”

Gi-hun’s laugh is deranged. "Benevolent?" He sneers. "You let me rot in that cell, starve me, freeze me. Oh yes, you’re really a saint, aren’t you?”

“You’ve been difficult, Player 456,” the Front Man murmurs, his voice calm, almost too calm. “I told you to put the translator on, but you resisted. I told you to sit just moments ago, yet you keep standing. Yesterday, you refused the food I gave you - that I prepared for you - and threw it at my feet like you had something to prove.”

The Front Man moves toward Gi-hun slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. Gi-hun’s pulse quickens, but he refuses to back down.

“You keep disobeying me,” the Front Man continues, his voice low and even. "But you’ve been… compliant when it matters."

The Front Man reaches out, his gloved fingers brushing the collar of Gi-hun’s tracksuit. The touch is light, almost intimate.

Gi-hun freezes. His breath hitches.

“You’ve proven yourself… so very obedient at times, haven’t you, Player 456?” The Front Man’s voice is a whisper, but there’s power behind it. His fingers linger on the collar, just for a moment, reminding Gi-hun of that touch, when his hand brushed Gi-hun’s skin. The warmth, the control - the memory.

“You’ve let me in, remember?" the Front Man whispers, his voice close to his ear. “And when you let me in... I know you enjoy it.”

Gi-hun’s face flushes. The heat in his stomach grows, spreading lower, and he feels the unmistakable pressure of arousal building. His breath comes in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to suppress the rising tide of desire.

“Don’t... touch me,” he snaps, but his voice cracks. His words are weak.

The Front Man doesn’t move his hand. Instead, his thumb traces the edge of Gi-hun’s collarbone, lingering just a moment too long. Every brush of the Front Man’s fingers sends sparks through his nerves.

“You’re testing my patience,” the Front Man murmurs, voice darkening. “I’ve let you express yourself. Allowed your tantrums. But you’re pushing your limits.”

Gi-hun’s breath falters. He wants to fight, but his body feels heavy, weak. “You can't control me,” he growls.

“I don’t have to control you,” the Front Man replies, his voice almost a murmur, like a dangerous lullaby. “You’ve already given me everything I need.”

Gi-hun’s heart stutters, his chest tightening painfully. What the hell does he mean by that? His mind is racing, but his body doesn’t respond the way he wants. The heat, the touch - it’s all too much.

The Front Man leans in closer. “You can’t resist me, Player 456,” he whispers. For a brief moment, the distortion of the mask fades - just enough for Gi-hun to almost hear a real voice, low and smooth, slipping through the mask’s filter. “You’ve already given in.”

Gi-hun doesn’t want this. He can’t want this. But the way the Front Man stands so close, so commanding, it’s breaking him. He’s losing control. And it terrifies him.

The Front Man’s hand moves again, this time to the back of Gi-hun’s neck, fingers grazing his bare skin. For a moment, everything stops. Gi-hun gasps, his breath caught in his throat. That touch - that touch - it sends a shock through him.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” the Front Man’s voice is almost playful, but there’s something dark and dangerous behind it. “You don’t want to test me.”

Gi-hun’s body reacts before his mind can catch up. He’s paralyzed, caught between the need to escape and the desire to stay. He wants to pull away, to stand tall, to keep the fight in him, but the moment lingers, thick with unspoken tension.

“Don’t touch me,” Gi-hun says again, but this time, his voice cracks, weak, almost pleading.

The Front Man gives a light chuckle, like he’s already won. He steps back slowly.

“Sit down,” he orders, his voice calm, controlled.

Gi-hun’s legs betray him. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowers himself into the chair, his movements stiff and awkward as he tries to hide the evidence of his arousal.

He hates this - hates how easily the Front Man can break him, how his body responds to the man’s touch, his voice, his presence. The heat between his legs is unbearable, and he feels a flush of shame as he realizes just how much control the Front Man has over him.

The Front Man steps back, his mask tilting slightly as he observes Gi-hun. “Good,” he says, his voice smooth and satisfied. “You’re learning.”

The masked men laugh - a low, mocking sound.

Gi-hun’s face burns with shame, his body still trembling with the remnants of arousal. He wants to scream, to lash out, but he knows it’s futile.

Panther Mask leans back in his chair, his voice dripping with amusement. “He’s a feisty one. You should put him on a leash.”

Buffalo Mask smirks. “Well, you’re starting to sound like you want to be the one holding it. You do like your toys on a leash, don’t you?”

A few chuckles ripple through the room. Lion Mask smirks. “Yeah, but I’m guessing this one’s off-limits, right?”

The Front Man’s gaze shifts to the VIPs for a brief moment, his eyes cold and calculating. “Yes,” he says, his voice low, as if the decision is already final. “He’s off-limits.”

Gi-hun feels a wave of disbelief wash over him. Off-limits? They’re treating him like some kind of fucking object.

The silence after the Front Man's words hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. The men smirk, their laughter fading into nothingness, but Gi-hun’s heart is still pounding in his ears.

Gi-hun can feel the Front Man’s gaze on him. He doesn’t dare look up, too afraid of what he might see - or worse, what he might feel. The weight of that stare is suffocating.

Then, just as slowly, the Front Man steps back.

Suddenly, the huge screen flickers, shifting from the faces of the twenty remaining Players to a stark, blindingly white room. Gi-hun’s breath catches sharply.

He knows rooms like these - remembers them from four years ago. Sterile, clinical, soulless. Places where teams were chosen, alliances formed, strategies crafted.

But something is different now. Two immense squares dominate the white floor - one blood-red, the other a cold, deep blue. Two doors flank the room, matching colors standing like ominous sentinels guarding unknown horrors.

Gi-hun’s heart jolts as the players slowly file into the room from a small, white side door. He spots Dae-ho instantly, arms trembling with exhaustion as he cradles Jun-hee’s shaking body. Jun-hee’s face is pale, sweat glistening painfully, her breathing ragged and broken with contractions she tries desperately to suppress.

Hyun-ju, Geum-ja, and Player 125 trail behind them, worry etched across their faces. Gi-hun notes how close they’ve grown, how Player 125 hovers protectively near them. An ally, forged from the hellfire of these Games.

The masked men erupt in cruel laughter, their voices a sickening symphony of mockery.

“Look at Player 388,” Deer Mask sneers. “Who knew we had a nursemaid playing this year?”

Then, the familiar mechanical voice slices through the tension, strangely bright, almost joyful - like a host announcing a party rather than a death sentence.

“The next Game will be played in two teams of ten. You have five minutes to create the two teams and set yourselves in one of the squares: red or blue.”

Immediately, the Players scatter, organizing themselves swiftly. Gi-hun watches with anxious dread as alliances form. Hyun-ju, Geum-ja, Jun-hee, Player 125, Dae-ho and the other two X’s cluster immediately into the red drawing three reluctant O players along with them.

Team Blue stands starkly opposite - entirely composed of O players, Player 44 among them, cold-eyed and resolute.

“Interesting,” Panther Mask murmurs. “Those last three O’s forced to play alongside the X’s. Must sting their pride.”

The VIPs laugh again, amused by the desperation, reveling in the chaos of shattered loyalties.

A Circle Guard steps forward. With a smooth, mechanical movement, he opens a white cabinet embedded in the wall. Inside, rows of neatly folded vests - red and blue - await their owners like uniforms of execution.

“All Players must take a vest matching their team’s color,” the mechanical voice commands.

The Players move forward numbly, pulling the vests over their trembling bodies. Jun-hee struggles visibly, pain etched deeply across her pale face as she tries to slip the tight red fabric over her swollen abdomen. Her hands shake violently, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Dae-ho hovers anxiously, gently guiding her movements, voice trembling with fear. “Easy, Jun-hee. Slow breaths, you’re doing okay.”

Geum-ja steps close, her eyes softening slightly, filled with a sorrow too heavy to conceal. Gently, she helps Jun-hee straighten the vest, her touch careful and tender. “We’re almost there,” Geum-ja whispers, voice thick with unspoken grief. “Stay strong, Jun-hee.”

Jun-hee nods weakly, her breath shallow, her body rigid against another contraction she tries desperately to hide. Her eyes flicker gratefully toward Geum-ja, a momentary spark of courage igniting deep inside.

The mechanical voice cuts through again, a blade slicing sharply through the momentary tenderness.

“Players, please stand in front of the door matching your color.”

Silently, resigned, they comply.

Gi-hun hears Dae-ho’s urgent voice, tight with worry. “We have to survive this. We can’t afford to lose now-”

Hyun-ju interrupts, voice resolute, fierce in its quiet strength. “We won’t lose. We’ll stay together, fight until the end. We owe that to each other.”

Geum-ja’s voice is softer, tenderly addressing Jun-hee. “Stay with us. You’re stronger than you think.” Her words tremble slightly, memories of loss bleeding through each syllable.

Jun-hee grips Dae-ho’s arm tighter, determination flaring through her pain. “I... won’t let you down,” she whispers brokenly. “I promise.”

The doors hiss open ominously, and one by one, the Players step forward, swallowed by shadows beyond.

As their voices fade into silence, Gi-hun’s chest aches fiercely, torn by the bitter irony, the cruel joke of the Games.

The men in the room laugh softly again, their amusement rising once more.

“How long do you think Player 222 will last?” Bear Mask jokes darkly. “Not taking bets?”

Panther Mask smirks. “With Player 388 playing nurse? Maybe longer than we think. Or shorter.”

Buffalo Mask’s voice twists cruelly. “And Player 149 - still grieving that dead boy of hers. Maybe she’ll cling onto the pregnant girl as a substitute. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Lion Mask’s laugh is vicious. “Now that’s motherly love, gentlemen.”

The VIPs’ laughter is abruptly cut off as the Front Man lifts a small, sleek remote and presses a button.

With a deep mechanical hum, the black curtain in front of them glides open, revealing a massive pane of glass - and beyond it, the arena.

A playground.

But not just any playground.

It is a monstrous, exaggerated version of the ones from childhood memories, warped and stretched to grotesque proportions.

Bright colors, oversized toys, unnatural cheerfulness.

Everything is too large. Towering jungle gyms with twisting slides that look more like snakes coiling into the air. A sprawling sandbox, so deep a body could disappear beneath it. Gigantic seesaws teetering precariously, their painted surfaces chipped and faded. A carousel at the center, frozen mid-spin, its gaudy horses’ mouths open in silent, frozen screams.

At opposite ends of the arena, two flags stand high.

One red. One blue.

Each perched at the top of a towering structure. The blue one atop a spiral slide so massive it looms like a vortex, the red one secured within the branches of a jungle gym shaped like a skeletal tree, its rusted bars twisting like gnarled fingers.

Between them, a battlefield of obstacles: hollow tunnels, wooden bridges, padded climbing walls, stacks of oversized building blocks just high enough to shield a crouching body. Perfect for hiding. Perfect for ambush.

The VIPs erupt into delighted murmurs.

"Oh, this is spectacular," Panther Mask purrs. "What a fun little playground! Almost makes you want to join in, doesn’t it?"

Beneath the glass, the Players materialize at opposite sides of the arena.

For a moment, they stand still, their bodies stiff, their expressions shifting between awe and horrified disbelief.

The screen next to the glass flickers, zooming in on their faces one by one - the wide, fearful eyes, the shallow breaths.

Jun-hee sways, her legs trembling. Dae-ho instinctively tightens his arm around her, as if shielding her from the entire arena.

Hyun-ju’s eyes scan the playground like a battlefield. Calculating.

Geum-ja’s expression is blank, but her fingers twitch against her vest. A quiet tremor.

Player 125 shifts, weight rocking between his feet, hands flexing at his sides. Like he wants to run but knows there’s nowhere to go.

The mechanical voice bursts through the speakers, sickly cheerful.

"Welcome to the Fifth Game, Players! You will be playing Catch the Flag!”

The announcement echoes through the playground like a cruel joke.

"Each Team must retrieve the opposing Team’s flag and return it to their base. If a Team’s flag is successfully brought to their base, that Team wins the Game. If all members of one Team are eliminated before a flag is retrieved, the Game ends automatically."

Silence.

The words settle, thick and suffocating.

And then-

"In addition-"

Something in Gi-hun's gut twists violently before the words even land.

"Each Player will be given a knife for defense and attack."

Gi-hun's stomach drops.

A Triangle Guard moves forward from each side of the arena, holding out a tray. Cold metal gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Knives.

Identical to the ones they were given before Gi-hun’s final Game.

The weight of the memory slams into him like a freight train-

Sae-byeok’s blood soaking into the mattress.

The sickening realization that he had been too late.

Too late.

Just like with him, in that final Game. The knife in his hands. The sharp, gasping breath before he drove it into his own neck.

His vision blurs at the edges, his pulse a thunderous roar in his skull.

"Really?" His voice is raspy, barely more than a whisper. "You had to add knives to this?"

Lion Mask laughs, lounging back lazily. "What’s a Game without a little bloodshed? No fun if they just run around like children."

Buffalo Mask snickers. "Oh, come on, 456. You should be used to this by now."

Deer Mask clicks his tongue, mockingly. "We wouldn’t want it to be too easy."

Gi-hun wants to smash his fists through the glass.

On the screen, the camera zooms in on Jun-hee, her hands weakly fumbling as the Triangle Guard extends a knife toward her. Her fingers tremble violently. The handle is slick in her palm, her grip so unsteady it nearly slips.

She’s barely standing.

Dae-ho moves without hesitation, grabbing both knives.

"I’ll hold onto it," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath.

Jun-hee doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have the strength to.

Dae-ho tightens his grip around his and Jun-hee’s knifes, his hands steady even as his knuckles pale.

The mechanical voice cuts through the stillness again.

"You have five minutes to talk as a Team and decide your strategy! Please position yourselves in your designated side of the camp!"

On the screen, a countdown appears in bold, bright numbers.

05:00.

04:59.

04:58.

Gi-hun’s eyes are locked on the Red Team.

His friends.

The ones who voted X. The ones who fought, who resisted, who didn’t want to be here.

Hyun-ju stands at the center of them, her back straight, her gaze sharp, focused. Even in a red vest, even with exhaustion clinging to her face, she looks like a soldier. Like someone who has done this before.

She doesn’t waste time. 

“We split into three groups,” she says firmly, voice steady over the chaos. “Attack. Intermediate. Defense. That’s our formation. We play smart. We play to win.”

Her eyes sweep over the Team, locking onto each of them, assessing.

“Who here runs fast?”

The two remaining X Players, young men with lean frames and restless energy, raise their hands immediately.

“I do.”

“Me too.”

Hyun-ju nods. “Good. You’re with me. We attack.”

The two exchange glances, gripping their knives tighter. There’s fear in their eyes.

Hyun-ju turns next to the rest of them. Her eyes flick between Geum-ja, Player 125 and two O’s that were forced onto their team.

“You. You’re intermediate.”

Player 125 swallows hard. "What exactly does that mean?"

“It means you cover us,” Hyun-ju says bluntly. “If we go down, you step in. If defense goes down, you step back. You’re the middle ground. Got it, Min-su?”

Min-su. Gi-hun knows his name now.

The boy exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Got it.”

Geum-ja barely reacts. She’s standing there, arms loose at her sides, expression unreadable.

“Geum-ja,” Hyun-ju presses, watching her carefully. “Can you handle that?”

A pause. Then-

“I can handle it.”

It’s not confidence. It’s detachment. A task to complete. A distraction from the son she lost.

Hyun-ju nods once, then turns to the last group.

Dae-ho, standing rigid, protective, his entire body angled toward Jun-hee.

Jun-hee, barely keeping herself upright, face pale and contorted in pain.

One of the O’s stands beside them, shifting uneasily.

“You three are defense,” Hyun-ju says. “You stay back. Protect the flag. Make sure no one gets through.”

Dae-ho’s jaw tightens. His grip on the knives doesn’t loosen.

"I’m not leaving her."

Hyun-ju exhales through her nose. A flicker of understanding in her eyes.

"No one’s asking you to. You stand your ground. If they break through, you do what you have to do."

Dae-ho nods once. No more words.

Jun-hee swallows hard, nodding weakly, but it’s clear she’s barely processing the conversation.

Both Teams take their positions.

The Red Team’s defense holds the base, surrounding the jungle gym where their flag hangs in the rusted branches. Dae-ho and Jun-hee take the top, his arms braced around her as she struggles to stay upright. The other O crouches at the base, shifting anxiously, eyes darting across the field.

In the midfield, Geum-ja, Min-su and the two O’s stand tense, braced for the coming storm.

Across the arena, the Blue Team mirrors them. Every face is drawn, every breath tight with anticipation.

00:05.

00:04.

00:03.

The playground is too quiet.

A Square Guard, standing from a high vantage point, raises a gun into the air.

"Ready, Players."

00:02.

Gi-hun grips the sofa, His chest is tight, his breath locked behind his teeth.

00:01.

The gunshot shatters the silence.

"GO!" 

And then - chaos.

Hyun-ju lunges first, leading the charge. The two X’s with her break off, flanking her on either side. Their feet pound against the ground, tearing across the battlefield, dodging between the towering structures.

The Blue Team’s defense reacts instantly.

A knife flashes - one of the O’s lunges out from behind a stack of building blocks, ambushing the X on Hyun-ju’s left. The blade sinks deep into his gut.

His scream is short-lived. Blood spills down his vest as he stumbles backward, the life already draining from his eyes before his knees hit the padded ground.

Gi-hun’s breath catches violently.

"NO!" He slams his hands against the fabric of the sofa, his voice raw.

The VIPs only laugh.

"Oh, look at that!" Panther Mask snickers. "One down already. Barely lasted a minute!"

"This is what happens when you run in blindly," Lion Mask remarks, amused. "Poor bastard didn’t even make it to the Blue defense."

Gi-hun’s stomach twists as he watches the O twist the knife before pulling it out, letting the body crumple lifelessly.

But Hyun-ju doesn’t stop.

She sees the death, she registers it, but there’s no time to grieve.

Her team still needs to get to the flag. And she needs to make sure they do.

Hyun-ju pivots, turning all attention to herself. She moves fast, unpredictable, erratic. Ducking, weaving, forcing the defenders to chase her.

Her blade flashes, cutting shallow wounds into anyone that gets close enough. It’s not about killing them.

It’s about keeping them occupied.

And it works.

Because while the Blue Team’s defense swarms Hyun-ju, the other X is already climbing.

Gi-hun sees him. His heart leaps in his chest.

The X has reached the spiral slide. He is climbing the stairs, two at a time, racing toward the blue flag at the top.

Gi-hun shouts, his voice raw with hope.

"YES! Go! Go! He’s almost there!!"

The VIPs mock him immediately.

"Oh, how adorable." Buffalo Mask laughs. "You’d think he was the one playing."

"Let him dream," Eagle Mask drawls. "He won’t be cheering for long."

And then, out of nowhere, a figure appears at the top of the slide.

A flash of steel.

A gurgled choke.

Gi-hun’s blood runs cold.

Player 44.

She slices the X’s throat.

Blood spurts down the stairs, staining the bright, cheerful plastic. The X chokes on his own breath, fingers twitching, before his body tumbles backward.

Down the stairs.

"NO!” Gi-hun screams.

The VIPs erupt in laughter.

"That’s what I like to see!" Deer Mask crows. "Brutal. Efficient. Beautiful work!"

"That one’s a real predator," Bear Mask grins. "You see the way she didn’t hesitate?"

Player 44 wipes the blood off her knife onto her sleeve.

Hyun-ju sees it.

Sees the X fall, sees the blood, sees the way Player 44 stands triumphant at the top of the slide.

She doesn’t freeze. She doesn’t hesitate.

Instead - she moves.

But not for the stairs. She knows Player 44 will expect that.

Instead, Hyun-ju sprints to the net on the side of the slide.

It’s not meant for climbing. It’s a safety net, stretched tight, meant to catch children who slip. But it will get her to the top.

Her fingers grip the rope. And she climbs.

Gi-hun’s breath catches as he watches Hyun-ju reach the top.

She moves with lethal efficiency, gripping the metal ledge and hoisting herself up onto the platform of the slide. The Blue Team’s defense is scrambling to react, but she’s already spotted her first target - a Blue Player standing too close to the edge.

Hyun-ju doesn't hesitate.

She grabs him by the vest and yanks him off the platform.

The Player’s scream rips through the arena as he plummets. His body slams into the ground with a sickening crack.

The VIPs explode in cheers.

“Now that’s what I call playing dirty!” Panther Mask hoots.

“Good! Good! That’s the spirit!” Buffalo Mask grins.

But Lion Mask is ecstatic. “YES! I knew I placed my bet on the right one! Knew he’d be a beast out there!”

Gi-hun scowls, disgust curling in his stomach, but he barely has time to dwell on it-

Because Player 44 has spotted Hyun-ju.

The shaman woman turns slowly, eyes gleaming, her painted face streaked with fresh blood.

She grins. "The spirits whispered to me." Her voice is low, eerie, hypnotic. "They told me you were coming."

She lunges.

Their knives clash, the sound of steel against steel ringing sharp through the nightmarish playground.

Player 44 moves like a specter, weaving between attacks, fluid and weightless. She twirls her blade between her fingers, every movement laced with unsettling precision.

Hyun-ju doesn’t falter. She stays grounded, calculated, her strikes measured. She fights with the efficiency of a soldier, keeping her footing, waiting for an opening.

The VIPs are thrilled.

“A knife battle at the top of the slide? This is entertainment!”

“The shaman’s got a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give her that!”

Player 44’s eyes burn like fire. She tilts her head, watching Hyun-ju with an eerie smile.

“Do you hear them?” she whispers, voice breathless. “The ancestors are calling for you. They say your thread is thinning.”

Hyun-ju’s blade flashes.

One clean strike.

Straight through the gut.

Player 44 gasps, her body jolting with the impact.

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then, slowly, her lips curl into a small, knowing smile.

"I should have listened to them."

Hyun-ju twists the knife.

The shaman slumps forward, her breath leaving her in a soft, wheezing exhale.

Hyun-ju pulls the blade free. Seon-nyeo’s body wavers, teeters-

Then falls down the slide, tumbling like a broken doll.

Hyun-ju doesn’t watch her land. There’s no time. She grabs the blue flag, rips it from its hold.

Gi-hun’s voice bursts out, raw and triumphant.

“YES! SHE GOT IT!”

Buffalo Mask leans forward, his voice dripping with amusement as he watches Gi-hun’s reaction. "Well, well, looks like our little cheerleader has something to celebrate."

Gi-hun doesn’t care.

The camera snaps away from the slide, refocusing on the midfield.

Geum-ja and Min-su stand together, tense.

Across the field, the two O’s on their team hold their ground, waiting.

Min-su’s eyes dart between them and the playground ahead. "There’s only one attacker left," he mutters.

"She can’t do it by herself," Geum-ja murmurs, voice distant. Her eyes flicker to the obstacles ahead, to the battlefield of hiding places and ambush spots.

Min-su nods, swallowing hard. "We have to move up."

Geum-ja exhales sharply. "Yeah."

But before they can take a step-

A blur of movement.

A Blue Player bursts out from behind a hollow tunnel, knife flashing.

Min-su’s eyes widen. He doesn’t react fast enough.

But Geum-ja does.

With a grunt of effort, she pushes Min-su aside and jerks back,  just in time for the blade to graze her shoulder instead of cutting deep.

She stumbles, gasping, pain flashing through her aging body. But she keeps moving.

She kicks out, catching the Blue Player in the knee. It’s not strong, not enough to break anything, but it throws him off balance.

That’s all she needs. She drives her knife forward. Straight into his ribs.

Eagle Mask lets out a low whistle. "Holy shit. The old lady moves!"

"Didn’t think she had it in her!" Panther Mask chuckles, shaking his head.

Lion Mask leans back, smirking. "Guess grief makes you sharper."

Min-su scrambles back to his feet, panting. His hands shake as he looks at the body at their feet - then back at Geum-ja.

She winces, gripping her shoulder where she was cut.

Min-su swallows. "You... saved me."

Geum-ja exhales, pressing down on the wound. "Don’t make me regret it."

Min-su hesitates for only a second. Then his expression hardens. He knows what he has to do.

He glances toward the slide, where Hyun-ju stands holding the flag. "I’m moving forward."

Gi-hun leans forward instinctively, hands gripping the edge of the shell-shaped sofa.He watches Min-su straighten, determination settling into his stance.

"Yes! Go, Min-su!" Gi-hun’s voice bursts out, raw and desperate. "Move! Help her!"

His heart slams against his ribs as Min-su starts running, darting past the padded climbing walls, weaving through the maze of obstacles, pushing forward toward Hyun-ju, toward the flag, toward the only chance their Team has left.

Gi-hun clenches his fists. "Come on, kid. Don’t stop now."

Min-su runs like hell.

Gi-hun watches, his stomach in knots, as the boy sprints across the battlefield, weaving through the grotesque playground. 

Above, Hyun-ju is trapped at the top of the slide, blue flag clutched tight in her fist. She’s scanning below, calculating, but she knows she won’t make it down with three Blue Players waiting like vultures.

Min-su sees it too.

And for once, he doesn’t freeze.

The Blue Players at the bottom laugh when they notice him coming.

"Hey, look at this one!" One of them sneers. "Lost, little rat?"

"Think you’re gonna be a hero?" Another one grins, knife spinning lazily in his fingers. "Run along, kid. Before we gut you."

Gi-hun grits his teeth. They’re underestimating him.

And Min-su knows it.

He lunges, fast, desperate, and clumsy. The blade in his hands shakes, but he doesn’t stop.

The first O barely has time to react.

Min-su rams his knife up under the player’s ribs, piercing deep.

The O’s eyes go wide, mouth opening in shock - but no sound comes out. Min-su shoves him back, pulling the knife free in a messy, frantic movement. Blood spills, staining the floor, the sand, the twisted, unnatural colors of the playground.

Hyun-ju is already moving. She climbs down the side of the slide, using the bars instead of the stairs, boots hitting the platform below.

She has an opening. Min-su gave her one.

But it’s not enough.

The second O lunges before Min-su can react, knife plunging into his stomach.

Gi-hun gasps, a sharp, choked sound.

Min-su stiffens. His breath falters. But he doesn’t go down.

The O twists the knife, and Min-su lets out a broken, wheezing gasp. But somehow - somehow - his arm still moves.

His knife slices across the O’s throat, a single, shaky, final effort.

Blood sprays. The O collapses.

Gi-hun grips the edges of the sofa, his body shaking.

He did it. He gave Hyun-ju the opening she needed.

But-

The third Blue Player moves.

Min-su is already falling. He can’t fight back.

The blade sinks into his chest.

"NO!!” Gi-hun screams.

The VIPs laugh.

"Oh, and here I thought the little rat was actually going to make it!" Buffalo Mask grins.

"Messy, but effective," Lion Mask muses. "For a coward, anyway."

Min-su hits the ground, hard.

Hyun-ju drops from the slide and turns - too late.

The third Blue Player is already backing away, eyes darting between her and Min-su’s body. He runs

Coward.

Hyun-ju moves to chase him, fury in her stance, but Min-su's choked breath stops her. She drops to her knees beside him.

Min-su is trembling, blood pooling beneath him. His breath comes in short, wet gasps.

One of the O’s from the Red Team kneels beside him too. He sighs. "Stupid kid."

Min-su lets out a weak, broken laugh. "Guess… I pulled it off… huh?"

And then-

Stillness.

Gi-hun feels like his chest is caving in.

Hyun-ju presses a bloodied hand against his shoulder, like she can keep him here, keep him anchored. But he's already gone.

The VIPs burst into applause.

"What a performance! Didn’t think the little coward had it in him!"

"Almost made me feel something!"

Gi-hun bows his head, fists clenched, teeth grinding so hard his jaw aches.

Hyun-ju pushes herself up, breath shuddering, flag clenched tight in her fist.

She can’t stop. There’s no time to grieve, no time to hesitate. Min-su gave her this chance.

So she moves forward, bloodied and relentless, racing toward the Red Team’s side of the camp.

She has to finish this.

The screen flickers, shifting to focus on the Red Team’s defense.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee sit at the top of the jungle gym, their position precarious, their bodies exhausted. Above them, the red flag sways.

Jun-hee is seated, her back pressed against the cold metal bars. Her breathing is shallow, pained, her body wracked with contractions. Every few moments, her hands press against her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her vest.

Dae-ho crouches beside her, both their knives still clutched in his hands.

“How bad is it?” his voice is low, tense, but careful.

Jun-hee forces out a shaky breath. “It’s bad.”

Dae-ho nods, swallowing hard. His grip tightens on the knives.

Below them, the third member of their defense - one of the O’s - stands on the jungle gym’s lower level. He’s jittery, shifting his weight, eyes darting around like a trapped animal.

Suddenly, a figure emerges.

A Blue Player steps out from behind a row of oversized building blocks, his knife glinting in the sickly arena light.

Dae-ho instantly pushes himself up.

The O flinches. His breathing turns sharp, erratic. Then - he turns and runs.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts over his shoulder, already scrambling away.

Dae-ho’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you fucking serious?!” His voice is sharp, furious, but the O is already gone, disappearing behind the playground structures. “GET BACK HERE, YOU COWARD!”

The Blue Player smirks and starts climbing.

Dae-ho reacts instantly. He turns to Jun-hee.

“Stay here.”

She doesn’t argue. She just nods.

Dae-ho moves. He grips the jungle gym’s cold metal bars and climbs down the stairs, landing on solid ground.

The Blue Player lunges first, fast, aiming straight for Dae-ho’s stomach.

Dae-ho sidesteps, barely dodging in time, and swings one of his knives.

The blade grazes the Blue Player’s arm, slicing through fabric, drawing blood.

The VIPs lean forward in their seats.

"Well, well!" Deer Mask grins. "Looks like 388 finally found his balls!"

"Quite the change," Eagle Mask muses. "Wasn’t he the one who backed away during the rebellion? Tsk. Regret makes men brave, doesn’t it?"

"Or desperate," Lion Mask chuckles.

Dae-ho pushes forward. His knife plunges into the Blue Player’s gut.

A choked gasp. Blood bubbles at the Blue Player’s lips.

Gi-hun slams his fist into the sofa.

“YES! Come on, Dae-ho, come on!!”

"Our cheerleader at it again," Buffalo Mask teases. "Adorable."

But it’s not over. The Blue Player’s knife is already moving. He drives it straight into Dae-ho’s chest.

Gi-hun’s cheering stops.

Dae-ho’s body stiffens. His knife falls from his grip, clattering against the jungle gym floor.

The Blue Player twists the blade.

Dae-ho staggers. His breath comes shaky, uneven. His legs threaten to buckle.

And he doesn’t see her.

Jun-hee.

She’s standing at the top of the stairs, moving despite the pain. Despite the contractions. Despite the fact that her body is breaking apart.

She steps forward. Her movements are slow but certain. She bends down, picking up Dae-ho’s fallen knife.

The Blue Player raises his weapon, ready to finish Dae-ho off.

He doesn’t see her coming. Not until it’s too late.

Her blade slices across his throat. A wet, gurgling noise.

The Blue Player stumbles, gasping, his hands flying to his neck, but there’s nothing to stop the life from pouring out of him.

He collapses.

Jun-hee doesn’t blink. Her eyes are empty. Hollow.

The VIPs erupt.

"HO! Didn’t expect that!"

"She actually fights?"

"And here I thought she’d just roll over and die!"

Buffalo Mask laughs. "Pregnant and lethal. Now that’s entertainment!"

Jun-hee turns to Dae-ho, who is sinking to his knees. Blood soaks his chest, too much of it.

Jun-hee catches him, cradling him before he can hit the ground completely.

Dae-ho coughs, his breath unsteady.

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head, gripping him too tightly.

He manages a weak smile. “It’s… it’s okay.”

Her eyes glisten. “It’s not.”

He swallows, struggling for breath. His fingers twitch against hers, the strength leaving him too fast.

“Listen to me.” His voice is barely there. “You… you’re getting out of here. You’ll have the baby. You’ll be happy.”

She shakes her head violently. “Stop talking like that.”

He tries to chuckle, but it comes out a broken, wet sound. His hand tightens, barely a squeeze.

“You have to promise.”

Her fingers curl around his bloody vest.

“I promise.”

His fingers twitch against hers. His body relaxes.

And then - his breath stops.

Jun-hee stares. A sharp, shuddering breath escapes her, and then another, and then she is sobbing.

Gi-hun feels something break inside him.

"Fuck you!!!!" He screams, turning to the VIPs, rage twisting in his chest. "He had a family! Four sisters! Parents who needed him! And you turned him into this...a fucking game piece!"

The VIPs only laugh.

"Not anymore," Panther Mask grins.

"Oh, don’t get all sentimental," Eagle Mask sighs, swirling his drink lazily. "He was dead the moment he decided to babysit the pregnant girl."

Gi-hun sees red.

His fists clench so hard his nails pierce his skin. His breath is ragged, teeth grinding, body trembling.

But there’s nothing he can do. Nothing except watch Jun-hee break.

She is alone now.

She kneels beside Dae-ho’s body, her breath ragged, hands trembling as she reaches for the second knife - the one he held for her. Her fingers close around the handle. 

Her contractions are stronger now. But she doesn’t make a sound.

Because she hears footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Mocking.

She knows what’s coming before she even looks up.

Another Blue Player. Tall. Smirking, eyes full of something ugly.

He stops a few feet away, head tilting as he drinks her in.

"Now, look at you," he muses, voice low and amused. "All alone. And still trying to fight?"

Jun-hee doesn’t move.

He takes another step closer. "You should’ve just died with your little boyfriend."

Jun-hee’s fingers twitch around the knife.

"Oh? Still got some fight in you?" His eyes flicker down to her stomach, his smirk widening. "Must be exhausting, huh? Carrying that thing around… in all this pain…"

He kneels, pressing in close, his weight crushing her legs, arms caging her in.

"You’re real pretty, you know that?" His voice is a whisper now, a purr. "I bet you’d beg if I made you."

The VIPs are eating it up.

"Ohhh, he’s having fun with this one," Panther Mask chuckles, shifting in his seat.

"Can’t blame him," Buffalo Mask smirks. "She’s been holding out the whole Game. Might as well enjoy what’s left of her."

Lion Mask laughs. "Maybe we should’ve made this a different kind of game, huh?"

"You sick bastards!!" Gi-hun’s voice shakes with fury as he shoots up from his seat, chest heaving. 

He doesn’t care anymore.

He turns to the Front Man, eyes blazing.

"Stop it! Stop this!!" His voice cracks, raw and desperate. 

The Front Man doesn’t move. Doesn’t even turn to look at him.

A beat of silence. Then, coldly, simply-

"Sit down, Player 456."

Gi-hun shudders, rage simmering beneath his skin, his fists trembling at his sides.

But he sits and forces himself to look at the screen again. And suddenly, it splits.

On one side, Hyun-ju is running.

On the other, Jun-hee is trapped.

Gi-hun’s chest tightens as his eyes dart between them, his breath caught somewhere between horror and helplessness.

Hyun-ju is almost there, flag clenched tight, shoes slamming against the playground floor, dodging past the grotesque, oversized obstacles. But she’s not alone.

Two Blue Players are right behind her.

Gi-hun watches as she glances over her shoulder, sees them gaining on her. But then her eyes snap forward-

And her body stiffens.

She’s not looking at the finish line anymore.

She’s looking at Jun-hee.

Pinned. Helpless. Trapped under the weight of a monster.

Gi-hun’s heart slams against his ribs as Hyun-ju’s scream rips through the speakers-

"JUN-HEE!"

The Blue Player hesitates.

For just a second, his head jerks up, eyes flickering toward the noise - toward Hyun-ju, toward the finish line, toward the moment that decides the Game -

And that second costs him his life.

Jun-hee moves. The second knife - the one Dae-ho held for her, the one she hid against her thigh - flashes.

She stabs him.

Not once.

Again. Again. Again.

Her body shakes with rage, each stab more vicious than the last, more desperate, more brutal.

She doesn’t stop.

Blood coats her hands, her arms, her chest, soaking into her vest, her legs, her breath ragged, her body screaming from pain and exhaustion and fury but she doesn’t stop-

Until the Blue Player stops moving.

Until there is nothing left to kill.

Gi-hun’s breath comes out in a shuddering gasp, his hands shaking as they clutch his knees.

And then he shouts. "YES!"

It’s half a sob, half a scream.

Jun-hee did it. She survived.

She killed him.

She’s covered in blood, trembling, barely able to hold herself up, but she’s alive.

The VIPs react instantly.

"Oh-ho!" Panther Mask grins. "Did not expect that!"

"Look at her," Buffalo Mask chuckles, leaning forward. "The little girl turned into a damn beast."

"Guess the pain gave her an edge," Lion Mask muses, amused. "Didn’t see that kind of fight in her before."

His eyes are glued to the glass, to Hyun-ju, to the flag clenched tight in her bloodied hand as she races forward.

His voice cracks as he screams again, this time at the glass, at the arena, at the whole damn world-

"Keep going, Hyun-ju! Run!!”

She’s so close. Gi-hun can already see it. They’re going to win.

Then - a blur of movement.

A Blue Player lunges from the side, slamming into her.

Hyun-ju crashes to the ground, hard. The impact rips the flag from her grasp, sending it flying through the air.

She turns, eyes widening in horror as the flag sails away.

It hits the ground, rolling across the padded surface, just a few feet from the finish line.

Gi-hun inhales sharply. "No, no, no-"

Hyun-ju pushes herself up, scrambling to reach for it, but the Blue Player who tackled her is already reaching for her vest, grabbing a fistful of fabric.

She twists violently, trying to shake him off, but he’s got her.

Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

She’s not going to make it.

And then-

A figure emerges from the shadows.

Geum-ja.

She steps out from one of the hollow tunnels.

"Oh?" Panther Mask hums, tilting his head. "What’s this now?"

"The old lady?" Bear Mask scoffs, swirling his drink. "Come on, what’s she gonna do?"

She sees the flag and picks it up.

And she runs. Not fast. She can’t. But she doesn’t need to. The distance between her and the finish line is short enough.

The Blue Players are too distracted with Hyun-ju to notice her in time.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

She crosses the line.

A loud buzzer pierces through the air, and the mechanical voice booms overhead.

"Game over."

The VIPs erupt.

"What the hell-" Lion Mask bursts out laughing. "Are you kidding me? That’s how it ends?"

"That’s hilarious!" Eagle Mask grins. "She barely ran! Just waddled right in!"

"And no one even saw her!" Panther Mask snickers. "They were too busy roughing up the other one. Dumbasses."

The Blue Player gripping Hyun-ju freezes, his fingers loosening instinctively.

Hyun-ju rips herself free, stumbling away from him.

Gi-hun barely has time to process it before the Triangle Guards move.

They descend like shadows, stepping into the arena.

The three remaining Blue Players run.

One sprints toward the giant seesaws, diving behind it, trying to disappear into the playground.

Another climbs up the jungle gym, panting, slipping on the metal bars slick with blood.

The third bolts for the hollow tunnel, crawling inside, trying to wedge himself into the darkness.

It doesn’t matter. The Guards aim.

The gunfire cracks through the air.

Gi-hun flinches.

The seesaw shakes violently as bullets rip through the wood, splinters flying. The Blue Player collapses underneath it, unmoving.

The one on the jungle gym barely makes it to the top before a bullet finds his back. He falls. Hard.

The last one, hidden in the tunnel, whimpers.

A single shot.

Silence.

Gi-hun lets out a slow, shuddering breath, his body trembling.

The screen shifts, focusing now on the survivors.

Hyun-ju. Jun-hee. Geum-ja.

And the three O’s who stood with them.

They stand in the aftermath, bloodied, exhausted, barely upright.

Geum-ja doesn’t hesitate. She climbs up the jungle gym, slow and steady, her breathing heavy.

Jun-hee is still kneeling, still drenched in blood, her shoulders shaking. Geum-ja reaches her, kneels beside her, and without a word, pulls her into an embrace.

Her hands clutch at Geum-ja’s vest, and the moment she feels the warmth of another human against her, the dam breaks.

She sobs into her shoulder, shaking, unable to hold it back anymore.

Geum-ja holds her tight, her own eyes wet.

Hyun-ju approaches them. For a moment, she just watches them. Then, slowly, she drops to a crouch beside them, pressing a hand against Jun-hee’s back, solid and steady.

The three O’s stand a few feet away, silent, watching.

The VIPs are murmuring, their voices filled with twisted amusement as they sip from their crystal glasses.

"Well, that was unexpected," Buffalo Mask chuckles, stretching lazily in his seat. "Didn’t think the old woman would be the one to finish it."

"What a pathetic way to go for the Blue Team," Deer Mask scoffs. "Running like rats. But the girl-" he gestures toward Jun-hee, still kneeling, sobbing into Geum-ja’s arms, "she’s something else, isn’t she?"

"What I find fascinating," Lion Mask muses, his voice smooth, reflective, "is how much they fight to survive, only to fall apart once they do."

"Survival is easy," Eagle Mask hums. "Living with it? Not so much."

Gi-hun can't speak. His throat is tight, his hands numb against his knees. His body feels trapped, frozen in place as the screen flickers-

The faces of the mourning players begin to fade, replaced by a new image.

The dead.

One by one, the faces of the fallen disappear.

The photos taken before the Games - some smiling, some staring blankly, some already looking like ghosts.

Dae-ho. The image of a man who had something to live for. A family waiting for him. Who held Jun-hee up until the very last second. Who should’ve made it.

And then - Min-su. The boy who had always been too afraid. The coward who died a hero. Who gave everything so Hyun-ju could finish what she started.

Gi-hun’s stomach twists.

From the 20 Players who entered the Fifth Game, only 6 remain.

Gi-hun is so consumed by the faces vanishing from the screen, by the weight of their deaths, that he doesn’t notice the presence beside him. Not until a voice cuts through the haze.

"You care too much," the Front Man murmurs - a private whisper, meant only for him. The VIPs don’t hear it, too busy laughing and drinking. "That’s why it hurts."

Gi-hun doesn’t react, doesn’t turn. But he is listening, even if he won’t admit it.

"The world outside this place is no different. You know that. It doesn’t reward kindness. It doesn’t wait for people like you. It devours them. You’ve seen it firsthand."

Still, no response. But the flicker of something in Gi-hun’s eyes betrays him.

"The Games don’t create this cruelty," the Front Man continues, voice unwavering. "They only strip away the illusion. In the end, it’s always been about power. The strong take, the weak suffer. It’s just… more honest here."

"That doesn’t mean we let it happen," Gi-hun grits out, the last flicker of defiance holding him together. A fire still burns in him, weak as it is.

The Front Man watches him a moment longer. "You think you’re fighting for something real. That if you struggle hard enough, you’ll change the rules. But the rules have been the same since the beginning, Player 456. We don’t get to rewrite them. We only decide how we survive them."

Something about the way he says it makes Gi-hun’s blood run cold. It’s not a command. Not even an argument. It’s a truth spoken from the mouth of someone who has lived it. Someone who has fought, struggled, and lost.

Gi-hun swallows thickly.  “You don’t enjoy seeing me suffer, right?” He looks at the mask, waiting - no, daring him to contradict himself. "Isn’t that what you said?"

The Front Man doesn’t hesitate. "No, I don’t."

Gi-hun lets out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. "Then why put me through this?" His voice is strained, barely holding together. "Why lock me in a cell? Why make me watch? Why-" His throat catches, but he pushes past it. "Why not just fucking kill me?"

"Because you refuse to understand."

Gi-hun’s breath falters, caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse.

"Because you keep pretending you’re different. That you can walk away from all of this untouched." There’s something almost patient in his tone, but it’s edged with something sharper. "But you can’t. No one does."

Gi-hun holds the Front Man’s stare, fists clenched.

"You think if you fight hard enough, if you rage against this long enough, it’ll mean something. That it’ll undo what’s already been done.”

The Front Man exhales, slow, precise, before continuing. "You think suffering like this makes you noble. But suffering alone doesn’t mean anything. You can’t bleed your way to righteousness, no matter how much you want to."

His voice drops just slightly. "So what’s left? You either let yourself break, or you adapt. You keep pretending you’re standing apart from all this, like you’re still on the outside looking in, but you’re not. You’ve already been changed."

Gi-hun shakes his head, hard, like he can physically reject the words, spit them out before they take root. "I don’t need your fucking pity."

"Good." The Front Man’s voice is steady, certain. "Because that’s not what I’m offering."

Gi-hun opens his mouth to snap back, but then he feels it.

The ghost of a touch against his cheek. A gloved thumb brushing away a tear he didn’t even realize had fallen.

His breath catches. The contact is fleeting, careful. Almost reverent.

Gi-hun jerks back, his whole body locking up, skin burning where he was touched.

"Get the fuck away from me," he hisses, his voice shaking.

The Front Man just watches him, unreadable.

"You don’t even know what you’re running from."

Gi-hun glares at him, heart pounding, chest aching with something he doesn’t want to name.

"Stay the fuck out of my head."

The Front Man doesn’t move. But there’s something in his stance, in the way he lingers just a second too long, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to him.

And then, softly-

"You were never meant to stand apart from this, Player 456. You belong here - beside me.”

Gi-hun stares at him, chest rising and falling too fast, caught between rage and something terrifyingly close to recognition.

The Front Man steps away, leaving him in the weight of those words.

And Gi-hun hates it. Hates that for one terrifying second, it almost – almost - made sense.

 

Notes:

This chapter took everything out of me, but honestly? I loved writing every second of it, especially the Fifth Game. The action, the chaos, the emotional damage... and of course, the sheer joy of killing beloved characters. (I swear it’s not personal.)

Also, I must apologize for the VIPs. Truly. Their existence alone is offensive, and yet, here they are, ruining everything with their creepy little comments. I don’t like them either.

Thank you so much for reading, and as always, your comments are very welcome. See you next time!

Chapter 5

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!

First of all, I just want to say thank you - truly, from the bottom of my heart - for all the love and support this fic has been receiving. Your comments, theories, reactions, and just overall enthusiasm mean the world to me and keep me incredibly motivated to keep writing. Seeing your responses makes every moment spent agonizing over the perfect sentence so worth it.

That said, I know updates haven’t been the most regular (for reasons I’ve already explained before), and I really appreciate your patience! I apologize for taking longer than usual, but please know I am absolutely committed to seeing this story through.

So, without further ado - enjoy the chapter. Buckle in, take a deep breath, and prepare yourselves. You’re gonna need it.

The bodies are collected without reverence.

Fourteen black coffins are stacked in the center of the arena, their pink ribbons tied into perfect, symmetrical bows. The obscene neatness of them, against the bloodstained ground, makes something in Gi-hun's gut curl.

The Circle Guards move like machinery, stepping forward in pairs, their boots sinking into the sand as they seize limp wrists, ankles, shoulders. The corpses sway as they are lifted, heads lolling back, mouths slack and half-open as if caught mid-sentence.

Bodies are dropped, folded, wedged into their boxes as if they aren’t human at all.

The cameras zoom in.

Dae-ho. His eyes are still open. Wide, glassy, reflecting the arena lights.

There’s something unsettling in them - not horror, not fear. Satisfaction. The ghost of a smile is carved into his lips, a quiet pride lingering in his expression. He had fought. This time, he hadn’t turned away. He had held his ground, saved Jun-hee. 

A Circle Guard grabs Dae-ho under the arms, another takes his legs. They swing him back once, twice, then dump him into the coffin. His head smacks against the side with a dull, wet thud. 

Then the cameras find Min-su.

The boy looks so small, fragile. In the artificial glow of the arena, his skin looks pale, his lashes dark against his cheeks. He almost looks like he’s sleeping. Like a child tucked into bed, except for the wounds in his stomach and chest.

The Circle Guards don’t hesitate. They lift him. One hand under his ribs, the other under his thighs. They don't cradle him. They don't hold him carefully. They toss him. His body lands in the coffin with a hollow, sickening thump.

Gi-hun flinches.

The fourteen coffin lids drop in unison.

The bodies are gone. The Players are gone. All that remains are the coffins. Lined up. Tidy. Clean.

And then dormitory fills the screen.

The six remaining Players stumble inside, their bodies heavy with exhaustion.

Jun-hee leans heavily against Hyun-ju, her legs trembling, barely holding her weight. Geum-ja keeps a firm grip on her arm, her own movements slower than before, her breath shallower.

The three O Players trail behind them, their eyes flickering over the room, with calculation. They are measuring. Watching.

The main doors slide open.

A Square Guard enters, flanked by two Triangle Guards.

“We sincerely congratulate and commend you for successfully making it through the five Games.” The Square Guard speaks. His voice is smooth, indifferent, devoid of anything resembling emotion.

Above them, the piggy bank rumbles.

Another flood of crisp, red-stamped bills spills into the glass sphere. The stacks rise, rise, rise, a monument to the deaths that have fed it.

The screen above the Players shows the prize - ₩ 45,000,000,000.

The O Players don’t move. But their faces shift. There it is. The hunger. The unmistakable gleam in their eyes, the pull in their expressions. The weight of a number they suddenly know is within reach.

The Square Guard speaks again, as methodical as ever. "You will now vote. Either to continue-" He gestures toward the glowing pile of money. "-or to stop the Games and divide the 45 billion won amongst you six."

Silence.

Gi-hun’s gaze lifts toward the Front Man. 

"No special gift before the Sixth Game this time?"

"Last time," the Front Man says evenly, "the dinner was not a reward. It was preparation."

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

The steak. The wine. The gleaming silver knives.

He swallows against the memory.

The Front Man watches him, unmoving. Then, without inflection, he continues.

"You were given a meal before the Final Game because you were expected to use your own hands. Your own weapons." A pause. "This time, that is no longer necessary."

The words sink in.

The Players were given knives for the Fifth Game. They already have their weapons.

The dinner was never about sustenance - it was about control. About placing the blade in their hands and watching what they would do with it.

Gi-hun doesn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders hardens.

A murmur ripples through the VIPs.

Eagle Mask leans forward, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

"Hmm. So if they vote X, that’s 7.5 billion won each." He tilts his head, his voice as smooth as silk. "That might not be enough for them, don’t you think?"

Buffalo Mask lets out a sharp, dismissive snort. "Not nearly enough."

A pause. Then, slowly, Eagle Mask taps his glass against the table.

"They could increase it."

The others look at him. Interest flickers.

Lion Mask raises a brow. "How?"

Eagle Mask chuckles. "Simple math."

He leans back, fingers drumming lazily against his knee, and continues as if explaining something obvious to a room full of children.

"Right now, they would split 45 billion won six ways." He glances at the screen, at the six remaining Players. "But there aren’t six Players, not really." A slow, understanding smirk spreads beneath his mask. "There are four Players... and two dead women walking."

The room hums with approval.

Eagle Mask gestures toward the screen.

"Player 149 and Player 222." His voice is patient, knowing. "The old lady and the pregnant girl. The O’s know it. We can see it in their faces. They’ve already thought about it."

On the screen, the three O Players stand apart, silent, unreadable. But their eyes flick to Jun-hee, swaying where she stands, breath uneven. To Geum-ja, gripping her arm, her own face pale with exhaustion.

They know.

Eagle Mask spreads his hands as if stating the obvious. "They won’t have to play the next round at all."

Silence.

Then, slowly, he lays it out.

"Right now, the prize is 45 billion. But if two Players ‘accidentally’ don’t wake up in the morning?" He clicks his tongue. "It jumps to 45.2 billion."

Deer Mask leans forward, intrigued. "Ah, I see it now. The death compensation."

Eagle Mask nods. "Precisely. 45.2 billion. And split between four instead of six?"

A deliberate pause.

"11.3 billion won each."

The numbers settle. A murmur of approval.

Lion Mask chuckles. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Buffalo Mask laughs, raising his glass. "Now that’s a strategy. No need to take risks in the Sixth Game - just clean up the weak ones before it even begins."

Deer Mask taps a thoughtful finger against his knee. "Really, it’s the easiest solution."

A slow, creeping amusement spreads through the room.

They don’t need to vote X. Not yet. Not until the vulnerable ones are gone.

A Circle Guard stands in front of the voting panel, motionless, waiting.

The O and X buttons glow under the harsh overhead lights, the only colors in the suffocating grayness of the room.

Gi-hun is still, watching the Players, watching the O’s. He silently begs them to see reason. To look at the three women standing among them and realize what they are about to do.

Geum-ja, who is too weak to continue playing, who can barely stand without leaning on something. Jun-hee, who is carrying life in a place that feasts on death. And Hyun-ju, who has fought so hard, too hard, to keep them alive. 

But he understands the pull.

Understands how easy it would be to just vote O again. To let the vote draw, let the night come, let the knives do their work in the dark. He understands how they think, how the greed must sit heavy, whispering that it’s just two more deaths in a game where death has been the only certainty.

The Square Guard speaks.

“The vote will begin from the lowest number to the highest.”

A pause.

“Player 84. Step forward.”

The first O Player moves. His steps are steady. He doesn’t hesitate. He presses O.

Gi-hun swallows. Of course.

“Player 120. Step forward.”

Hyun-ju steps forward without hesitation. She slams her hand down on X.

Gi-hun lets out a slow breath.

“Player 149. Step forward.”

Geum-ja moves slower, her knees shaking beneath her. But she grips the table, fingers tightening on the edges, forces herself upright. She presses X.

Two for X. One for O. The vote isn’t lost yet.

“Player 222. Step forward.”

Jun-hee is barely able to move.

Hyun-ju murmurs something to her, soft but firm, and slides an arm around her waist, guiding her forward. Jun-hee’s breaths are uneven, her face twisted in pain, but she makes it. Barely.

Her fingers tremble over the button. She presses X.

Gi-hun breathes out, slow and careful, as if the air itself is fragile.

Three for X. One for O.

Only two Players left.

“Player 306. Step forward.”

The second O Player steps up. No hesitation. He presses O.

Gi-hun clenches his jaw.

Three to two.

One vote left.

“Player 435. Step forward.”

Don’t do it. Change your mind. Just press X.

Gi-hun doesn’t pray. Not anymore. Not since he was six years old, lying in bed with the covers over his head like they could stop the sound of his father’s voice slurred thick with rage and soju, louder than the TV, louder than his mother’s sobs, louder than the breaking of things.

That night the fists didn’t stop at the table.

That night, they found her.

That night, Gi-hun had folded his hands and whispered to the dark.

He didn’t pray for it to stop.

He didn’t pray for safety, or love, or for his mother to get up off the floor.

He prayed for absence. For erasure.

Make him gone. Let him vanish. Let us be free.

And the next morning, his father was gone, and Gi-hun never saw him again.

Now, decades later, he prays again. But not to God. God has nothing to do with this. God wouldn’t be watching from a leather throne with champagne in hand. No, just to anything listening. To the floor. To the walls. To the pit of the universe that eats people whole.

Player 435 steps forward. His hand hovers over X.

He doesn’t press it.

Gi-hun stops breathing.

Just press it, it’s right there. Press the fucking X, you coward.

435’s fingers twitch, like he’s actually considering it. The hesitation is excruciating. Gi-hun imagines himself screaming, leaping forward, shoving that hand down onto the X, cracking it with the weight of everything he's lost.

The VIPs shift. Someone laughs.

"Oh, this is delicious," Panther Mask purrs.

“Bet you five he folds,” snorts Buffalo Mask. “Greed always wins.”

435 pulls his hand back.

Gi-hun’s breath catches in his throat.

Please. Please, I can’t watch another one die. I can’t-

And then hand jerks away from X, then slams down, brutal and final, on O.

The sound of it is obscene. A single, echoing smack of doom.

Gi-hun’s stomach drops.

The Square Guard doesn’t hesitate.

“The vote has resulted in a draw. Tomorrow morning, you will vote again.”

The VIPs burst into laughter.

“Oh, beautiful! Just beautiful!” Deer Mask says, clapping his hands together.

Panther Mask leans back, pleased. “Well, that was fun. Our dear 456 looks absolutely devastated.”

Buffalo Mask hums. “He really thought it would go differently.”

Gi-hun forces himself to stay still. Forces his breath to even out.

The VIPs keep laughing.

The laughter doesn’t stop. It festers, rotting in the air, curling around him like smoke. They’re entertained. Of course, they are. They don’t see people on that screen. They see animals. Beasts that can be provoked. Creatures that can be broken.

Something in him snaps.

"Are you serious?"

His voice cuts through the noise like a blade, raw and furious. It silences the room for half a second.

Then - more laughter.

Lion Mask sighs dramatically, stretching out on his chair like a bored cat. "Oh, here we go again." His voice drips condescension. "What’s wrong now, 456? Going to throw another one of your tantrums?"

Buffalo Mask chuckles, shaking his head. "Honestly, it’s exhausting."

Gi-hun’s eyes flick up to the screen.

Jun-hee stumbles toward one of the last remaining beds, clutching her swollen stomach. She sinks onto the mattress, her clothes still stained with blood from the last Game. Tears streak down her face.

Geum-ja kneels beside her, pressing a hand to Jun-hee’s forehead.

Hyun-ju stands over them. Her knife is exposed now - glinting in the dim light. She’s not hiding it anymore. 

Across the room, the three O Players watch her. Their eyes flicker with hesitation, but also determination.

They’re scared of her. Of Hyun-ju. But not enough to stop what’s coming.

Gi-hun watches them for one long, suffocating second.

Then he turns back to the VIPs. He leans forward, voice cutting.

"Look at them. What do you see?"

Eagle Mask hums, amused. "Oh, we are looking, 456. And what we see are Players making choices. Adapting. Surviving. That’s what this is, after all."

Gi-hun’s eyes narrow.

"Really look at them. Not as Players. Not as numbers on a screen. Look at them as people."

Eagle Mask exhales, feigning exaggerated patience.

"They are people, of course. But people who understood the risks. They chose this. That’s what makes the Game fair-"

"You love to say they ‘chose this,’ don’t you?" Gi-hun’s voice breaks through like glass shattering. "You cling to that line like it means something. Like it makes this okay." His gaze sweeps across the VIPs. "They signed up voluntarily, right? That’s what you tell yourselves?"

"Of course they did," Eagle Mask replies smoothly. "No one put a gun to their heads."

Gi-hun lets out a cold laugh.

"You think that means they had a choice?" His voice hardens. "Let me tell you what choice is."

He straightens up.

"Choice is what you have when you aren’t so deep in debt that you’d rather risk your life than face another day of it. Choice is what you have when your system doesn’t force people to the edge and then call them weak for falling."

The room goes silent.

Gi-hun presses forward. "None of us were free when we came here. We were already prisoners of your world. This-" he gestures toward the screen, toward the Games, "-this was just the cage you dressed up in neon lights."

Lion Mask clicks his tongue, unimpressed. "Oh, please. Spare us the sob story."

"Sob story?" Gi-hun laughs, but there’s no humor in it. "Fine. Let’s make this simple."

His fingers dig into the table. His voice drops lower, heavier.

"You ever been in debt?"

Silence.

"No?" Gi-hun nods, feigning understanding. "Of course not. You sit in your fucking golden chairs and sip your imported whiskey. You don’t have to think about what it means to be poor. But let me tell you what that means."

He looks directly at Eagle Mask now, holding his gaze.

"It means being afraid to pick up the phone because it’s another collector calling to remind you that you don’t own your own life anymore. It means working three jobs and still not having enough to keep your fucking lights on.”

His breath shudders, but he doesn’t stop.

“It means looking at your sick mother in a hospital bed and realizing that medicine is only for the people who can afford to live.”

Gi-hun swallows hard. He sees her, even now - frail, breath hitching, waiting for a surgery that never came.

“It means being told over and over that it’s your fault. That you should’ve worked harder. That you should’ve made better choices."

Eagle Mask tilts his head, intrigued. "And?"

Gi-hun’s lips curl.

"And then one day, someone hands you a business card with a little Circle, a little Triangle, and a little fucking Square."

He leans in now, staring them down.

"And you know what happens next?" His voice is deadly soft. "You pick it up. Because you have no other options. You tell yourself it can’t be worse than where you already are.”

Gi-hun remembers the weight of the card in his fingers, stiff and glossy, the ink pressed deep like it had been waiting for him all along. A way out. A lie dressed up as hope.

“And then you wake up in a room full of strangers wearing a number on your back, and before you can even process it, you watch the first person die. You hear the gunshot before you even hear them scream."

Gi-hun’s voice is cold now.

"That’s the choice we had. Debt or death. Starve outside or risk dying in here."

He leans forward, staring them down.

"Tell me-" his voice is almost a whisper now, but somehow more dangerous than ever, "how is that a choice?"

The room is silent. The only sound is the faint hum of the plasma screen, the soft clinking of ice against glass as one of the VIPs swirls his drink.

Eagle Mask studies him for a long moment. Then, finally-

"Hmph. Interesting perspective."

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens. His eyes flash, anger simmering just beneath the surface, but he says nothing. Instead, he shifts his gaze sharply toward the Front Man, a sudden surge of disgust coloring his expression.

"And what about you?" he snaps. "Are you just going to stand there and watch them slaughter a pregnant girl and an old woman?"

The Front Man stiffens, head turning slowly, ominously. His voice emerges, icy calm, edged in barely contained warning.

"Player 456," he intones evenly, "you are pushing it. You-"

"Oh, fuck off," Gi-hun scoffs, voice dripping with contemptuous exhaustion. The words are bitter, dismissive, thrown carelessly like a weapon he no longer has the patience to restrain. He's beyond threats, beyond caring about them.

The VIPs collectively freeze for half a second, then Buffalo Mask spits out his drink, choking on a startled laugh.

"Ohhh," Buffalo Mask exhales, leaning forward eagerly. "Did he just-"

"Oh, he did," Deer Mask laughs delightedly, practically clapping his hands.

Bear Mask, for the first time all evening, sits forward with genuine intrigue. "Well, well. The dog fights back."

Panther Mask is grinning. His fingers twitch against the armrest, as if itching to touch, to push, to press against something fragile just to watch it break.

"I think I’m in love," he purrs, voice velvet-soft and unsettlingly warm.

Gi-hun abruptly stands up. Eyes locked onto Panther Mask, disgust twists his features.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Gi-hun snarls. "Always talking, always making your disgusting little comments."

Panther Mask only smiles wider, leaning forward with evident delight. "Oh, please, continue, darling. You're thrilling."

Gi-hun’s fists clench. He takes a step toward Panther Mask, voice dropping to a low growl of contempt.

"You think I don't see exactly what you are? You're pathetic. Hiding behind that mask, getting off on misery like some spoiled fucking brat."

Laughter ripples through the VIPs again, but this time it's harsher, mocking - directed toward Panther Mask himself.

"Oh, he’s got you pegged," Deer Mask snickers. "Careful. Looks like you've finally found someone willing to bite."

Panther Mask’s laughter falters slightly, but his voice remains playfully predatory, fingers lifting slightly as if to beckon Gi-hun closer.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind a little bite. Come closer, let’s see if-"

"Try it," Gi-hun interrupts coldly, menace glittering in his eyes, "and I swear you'll regret it."

Panther Mask shivers visibly. His fingers stretch slowly toward Gi-hun, as if drawn irresistibly by the danger in the air.

The Front Man’s voice slices through the tension like a blade of ice.

"That’s enough."

Panther Mask freezes instantly, hand suspended mid-air. He hesitates, then slowly lowers it, leaning back with exaggerated obedience.

"Apologies," Panther Mask says lightly, clearly disappointed at having his amusement cut short.

The Front Man turns fully toward Gi-hun now, his posture radiating absolute authority.

"Player 456," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "This is your last warning. Go back to your seat. Now."

Gi-hun’s eyes flash defiantly, but something in the Front Man’s rigid stillness forces him to hesitate. The room holds its breath, heavy with anticipation.

Finally, with a reluctant exhale, Gi-hun steps back, slowly sinking into his seat once more.

But this time, as the VIPs regain their composure and begin their quiet murmurs, there’s a shift. They’ve seen something in Gi-hun’s eyes that unsettles them. A glimpse of something they can’t mock or control.

Gi-hun barely has time to gather his thoughts when a sound rips through the room - a scream.

It tears through the air, cutting through the low murmurs of the VIPs like a blade. It’s a sound of pure, raw pain, the kind that burrows under the skin and won’t leave.

Gi-hun’s eyes lock on the screen.

Jun-hee is curled on the thin mattress, her face twisted in agony, sweat clinging to her skin. She is shaking, her hands gripping at the sheets like they might hold her together. 

Geum-ja is crouched beside her, her frail hands trembling but firm as she presses a hand to Jun-hee’s forehead. Her voice is low, steady, soothing.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe."

Jun-hee gasps, her entire body convulsing with pain. 

"I-I can't-" She shakes her head violently, her voice shattered, barely more than a whisper.

"You can." Geum-ja’s grip tightens around her hand, her touch reassuring. "You’ve already come this far. You can."

Jun-hee sobs, her body writhing against the relentless force pulling her apart.

"Please... it hurts so much."

Hyun-ju, who had been standing over them like a guardian, finally kneels, placing a firm hand on Jun-hee’s arm. Her knife is still clutched tightly in her other hand, never lowered, never out of sight.

"Jun-hee." Her voice is calm, more forceful than Geum-ja’s, but not unkind. It’s the voice of someone used to survival, someone who has already made peace with what it takes to endure. "Look at me."

Jun-hee doesn’t respond, her body racked with another wave of pain, a ragged moan escaping her throat.

Hyun-ju’s grip tightens.

"You need to breathe through it. I know it hurts. I know. But you don’t get to give up now."

Jun-hee shudders, blinking through the pain, her eyes desperate, searching.

"I c-can’t, I can’t-"

"Yes, you can." Hyun-ju’s fingers press into her arm, grounding her. "You’ve made it through five Games. You are stronger than this. Don’t let it break you."

Jun-hee’s breaths come quicker, shallower. Another scream wrenches out of her, and Geum-ja winces, her frail hands stroking her hair.

"There, there, my dear. It’s okay. We’re here."

Gi-hun’s nails dig into the armrest of his seat as he watches, his stomach twisting violently.

This isn’t a Game anymore. This isn’t strategy, or survival, or desperation. This is suffering for the sake of suffering.

And the VIPs are watching. Their murmurs are low, amused.

"Oh my," Buffalo Mask hums. "Looks like she won’t last much longer."

A slow laugh ripples through them, indulgent, detached.

Gi-hun’s fists clench.

And then he sees Geum-ja moving.

She pushes herself up from the floor, her knees buckling under her frail weight, and staggers toward the main door. Her voice rises, trembling, desperate.

"She needs a doctor!"

The cameras shift, following her stumbling movements.

"She’s having a baby!" She pounds on the door, frantic. "We need help - a doctor, painkillers, something! You can’t just leave her like this!"

She is met with silence.

Gi-hun turns to the Front Man.

"She will bleed out." His voice shakes with rage. "Then what? Your entertainment stops? That’s against your interests, isn’t it? Please. Get her a goddamn doctor."

The Front Man doesn’t even shift.

"No," the Front Man repeats, his tone even. "If we provide medical attention to one Player, we must provide it to all. And then what happens? A starving Player will demand food. An injured one will demand treatment. A grieving one will demand comfort."

Gi-hun’s teeth clench, fury bubbling in his gut. "She’s not just injured, she’s in labor! She needs medicine-"

Buffalo Mask snorts, interrupting him with a dry laugh. "Then maybe she should have kept her legs closed."

The room erupts in laughter.

"Oh, please," Deer Mask chuckles, lifting his glass. "You expect us to care about this?"

Lion Mask waves a dismissive hand. "What do you want next? A full-service hospital? A maternity ward? Maybe we should give her a baby shower while we’re at it."

"Or better yet," Panther Mask drawls, swirling his drink lazily. "Why don’t we let her push the baby out and have a whole new Player in the game?"

Gi-hun snaps.

His fingers dig into his thighs, nails pressing deep enough to sting. He wants to get up. Every muscle in him screams for it, to throw something, to wipe the smugness off their faces with his bare hands.

But he doesn’t.

Not because he doesn’t want to - God, he wants to. But because he knows the weight of the Front Man’s stare, the silent warning hanging in the air like a blade pressed to his throat.

So instead, he forces himself still.

His voice comes out low and seething, like fire smothered under layers of stone, ready to crack through at any moment.

"You fucking monsters."

The laughter fades, but the amusement doesn’t.

Eagle Mask hums, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Oh, look," he muses, his tone light, pleased. "We struck a nerve."

Gi-hun barely hears him.

A sharp, echoing sound yanks his attention away.

His gaze snaps back to the screen.

Geum-ja stands at the door, her breath ragged, face pale with exhaustion.

She lifts her fist one final time - a last, desperate attempt - and slams it against the steel with everything she has left.

The sound is deafening.

A hollow, brutal thud that ricochets through the room.

Then - silence.

The door doesn’t move. The Guards don’t respond.

Nothing.

Jun-hee sobs softly in the background.

On the screen, Hyun-ju stands, her back rigid.

Across the room, the O’s  whisper among themselves. Their eyes flicker - to Jun-hee, to Geum-ja, to Hyun-ju.

They don’t move yet.

They could. They should. Three against one is good odds.

So why aren’t they attacking?

And then it clicks.

It’s better to wait.

Better to strike after the baby is born - when Geum-ja is weak from delivering it, when Jun-hee is too far gone to fight, when Hyun-ju is too preoccupied trying to protect them both and the baby.

They aren’t waiting out of hesitation. They’re waiting for the perfect moment.

Another ragged scream from Jun-hee tears through the room.

Hyun-ju tightens her grip on her knife.

Geum-ja is still at the door, hands braced against the steel, her brittle breaths the only sound left between the screams. Then, with slow deliberation, she turns around.

And when she faces the room again, she’s not pleading anymore. There’s no desperation in her eyes now. No hope that someone else might save them. Only one thing remains.

Resolve.

She strides back to Jun-hee’s side, voice low but clear, with a calmness that has weight.

"Jun-hee, sweetheart," Geum-ja says gently, smoothing a trembling, wrinkled hand over Jun-hee’s damp forehead. "No one is coming. We have to do this ourselves. Do you trust me?"

Jun-hee lets out a sob, her head jerking in a desperate, weak nod.

Geum-ja scans the dormitory, her gaze landing on an unused mattress.

Without hesitating, she pulls the top sheet free, shaking it out with quick, efficient hands before folding it. She slides it under Jun-hee’s hips.

Then, Geum-ja reaches for Jun-hee's waistband.

"Jun-hee, I’m going to take these off now, alright?" Her voice is gentle, steady, but unwavering.

Jun-hee nods weakly.

Geum-ja pulls the fabric down, her movements quick and clinical, stripping the pants past Jun-hee’s knees, then completely off.

Gi-hun forces himself to look away. He fixes his stare on the floor, his breath coming in slow, controlled drags through his nose.

"Fuck," Buffalo Mask mutters, stretching lazily in his chair. "I didn’t sign up for a medical drama."

"Oh, please," Lion Mask scoffs, swirling his glass. "If she can handle killing people, she can handle pushing out a kid."

"Now, now," Eagle Mask hums, watching the screen with vague interest. "Let’s not be cruel. This is a special moment."

"Oh?" Panther Mask leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. "You feeling sentimental?"

Eagle Mask smirks. "I just enjoy seeing life and death so close together."

Gi-hun feels something in his chest coil tight and violent.

Hyun-ju moves again, shifting her body in front of Jun-hee, planting herself between her and the cameras. She angles herself carefully, blocking the view not just from the VIPs but from the O’s, shielding Jun-hee’s exposed body. Her free hand tightens around the hilt of her knife, fingers flexing just slightly. Her gaze flickers toward the O’s watching them as much as she watches Jun-hee, ready, waiting.

Then she offers her hand.

"Hold on to me," she says softly. "No matter what happens, I won’t let go."

Jun-hee grips her like she’s gripping the edge of the world.

Geum-ja presses gentle but firm hands on Jun-hee’s knees, encouraging her to spread her legs wider

"Alright, sweetheart," Geum-ja says, her voice even and sure, but there’s a flicker of urgency beneath it now. "When the next contraction comes, I need you to push. As hard as you can."

Jun-hee barely has time to react before another contraction hits her like a storm, her body jerking, her head tilting back in a choked, hoarse sob.

"Push!" Geum-ja commands.

Jun-hee pushes.

Time passes.

Gi-hun can’t see what’s happening, but he hears everything.

Geum-ja’s voice is constant, firm and guiding.

"That’s good, keep going - yes, like that-"

"You’re strong, Jun-hee, you can do this-"

"Again, push, push."

Then, suddenly, Geum-ja’s voice changes.

"I see the head," she breathes.

Jun-hee lets out a shaking, choked sob.

Hyun-ju’s grip tightens. "You’re almost there," she murmurs.

Another contraction, another push.

Then-

"Stop pushing!"

Jun-hee freezes, gasping through her teeth, her body shaking violently.

Hyun-ju snaps her gaze down. "What’s wrong?"

"The head," Geum-ja says quickly. "It’s almost out, but she needs to go slow. If she pushes too fast, she’ll tear."

Jun-hee lets out a broken, terrified noise.

"Short breaths, sweetheart," Geum-ja instructs, bringing her lips together and exhaling in quick, controlled puffs, demonstrating the rhythm. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this."

Jun-hee follows her immediately, blowing the air out in quick, trembling bursts.

Gi-hun clenches his jaw, his stomach twisting painfully.

"The head is coming," Geum-ja murmurs. "It’s stretching - that’s it, that’s good-"

There’s a long silence.

Geum-ja inhales sharply.

"The shoulders," she murmurs. "They’re stuck."

Hyun-ju’s body stiffens. "What?"

"The baby’s shoulders are too broad. I need to make room."

Jun-hee shakes violently.

"I have to cut," Geum-ja says, faster now, almost rushing the words out, as if she doesn’t want to say them at all. "Otherwise, she’s going to tear too much - it’s not coming out."

Jun-hee lets out a gasping cry, shaking her head frantically.

Hyun-ju tightens her grip.

"Hyun-ju," Geum-ja says urgently. "The pin in my hair. Get it."

Hyun-ju doesn’t question it. Her fingers reach up, slipping through the silver strands of Geum-ja’s hair, and then, she finds it.

The small, hidden blade, smooth and clean. It’s small, barely long enough to be a weapon, but sharper than the rusted, dulled knives they used in the Games, unstained by blood or rot. Not sterile, not ideal, but here, in this room, it’s the cleanest thing they have. The best chance Jun-hee has.

She hands it over.

Geum-ja doesn’t hesitate.

"Jun-hee," she murmurs. "I need you to stay very still. Hyun-ju is going to hold you down."

Jun-hee sobs violently.

"No," she whimpers. "Please-"

"You have to," Geum-ja says quickly. "If we don’t do this, the baby won’t make it."

Jun-hee shakes her head, her chest rising and falling fast.

Hyun-ju moves immediately, pressing her hands against Jun-hee’s shoulders, locking her down.

"You’re okay, you’re okay," Hyun-ju murmurs.

Jun-hee sobs, choking on air.

"I’m sorry," Geum-ja whispers.

And she cuts.

The scream that tears from Jun-hee’s throat is inhuman, a sound so raw, so broken, that Gi-hun almost recoils.

"Thought we were watching a birth, not an exorcism," Buffalo Mask laughs.

Gi-hun’s vision blurs with rage.

"The shoulders," Geum-ja breathes. "They’re coming free. One, then the other-"

Jun-hee is barely conscious, her face ashen, her body trembling violently.

Suddenly, there is a new sound. A wet, thin gasp. A fragile, reedy wail, so small, so impossibly new, that for a moment, Gi-hun’s brain doesn’t process it.

And then - a cry.

A real one. Loud, desperate, filling the room with a sound that doesn’t belong here, that shouldn’t belong here, not in this hellhole, not in this nightmare.

Geum-ja laughs. A short, breathless thing, unbelieving, triumphant. "It’s a boy," she says, a strange tremor in her voice, like she doesn’t quite believe it herself.

Jun-hee sobs, collapsing forward as if her body is caving in on itself. Geum-ja moves fast, her hands practiced, efficient, working with quiet urgency. Gi-hun can’t see what she’s doing, but he hears everything, the shifting of fabric, the slick sound of something being adjusted, the low, wet noises of a body brought into the world.

And then he sees him.

A small, wriggling bundle, flushed and raw and real. The baby lets out another weak cry, his tiny fists curling, his delicate limbs kicking against the air.

Geum-ja smiles wide, wrinkles crinkling her face in something so pure and joyful that it shouldn’t be possible in this place. She carefully, reverently, lifts the baby, cradling him as she checks his breathing, his color, the way his tiny chest rises and falls.

"Sweetheart, look at him," Geum-ja murmurs, placing him gently into Jun-hee’s trembling arms.

Jun-hee chokes on a sob, pressing the baby against her chest, her body still quaking. She cradles him, her hands barely able to hold him, like she’s afraid he’ll break.

"He’s-" Jun-hee gasps between sobs, her whole body shaking, "He’s so-"

"Beautiful," Geum-ja finishes for her, voice thick with warmth.

Hyun-ju lets out a small, exhausted laugh, running a shaky hand down her face. "Holy shit," she murmurs. "You actually did it."

Jun-hee laughs too, gasping through her tears.

And then Gi-hun laughs.

The sound breaks from him before he even knows it’s happening, full and real, something so foreign it almost startles him. But he can’t stop.

It’s ridiculous. Insane.

But it happened.

Here, in this godforsaken place, a baby was born.

The moment stretches, holding something impossibly warm. Gi-hun lets himself bask in it, just for a second. In the sound of the baby’s soft cries, in the way the women are grinning, breathless, victorious, in the feeling of something alive, new, untouched by this horror.

Geum-ja moves again. "We need to cut the cord," she says, her voice slipping back into calm precision. She reaches for the knife, but this time, her hands are gentler, more careful, as she takes it from Hyun-ju.

"Hyun-ju, hold the baby for a second."

Hyun-ju blinks but doesn’t question it. She carefully lifts the newborn, holding him close as Geum-ja works swiftly, efficiently.

"Umbilical cord looks healthy," she mutters, more to herself than to anyone else. "We’ll clamp it with fabric-" she reaches for a strip of the sheet, ties it tightly around the cord a few centimeters from the baby’s belly, "-and cut here."

She brings the blade down, slicing through the pale blue cord in one clean motion.

Geum-ja wraps him in another section of the sheet, tucking it tightly around his small, perfect body. She hands him back to Jun-hee, who clutches him like she’ll never let go.

For the first time in what feels like eternity, Gi-hun lets himself breathe.

"Well, I’ll be damned," Lion Mask mutters. "She actually pulled it off."

"Shame it’ll probably die anyway," Buffalo Mask chuckles, taking a lazy sip from his drink.

"You’re all so cynical," Eagle Mask hums, watching the screen with vague intrigue. "Look at them. It’s actually quite beautiful, isn’t it?"

Gi-hun is still watching them, still letting himself feel it, the impossible warmth of the moment, when something in his gut goes cold.

Two of the O Players are moving.

Slow, careful steps, their bodies lowered, poised. 

"Hyun-ju." Gi-hun’s voice comes out low, his breath strangled in his throat. He tries again, louder, more frantic. "HYUN-JU!!!"

But she’s still turned toward Jun-hee, toward the baby, her shoulders finally relaxed, her knife lowered. She doesn’t see them.

And of course she doesn’t hear Gi-hun screaming.

They’re almost there.

Jun-hee, however, looks over Hyun-ju’s shoulder and immediately screams.

Hyun-ju moves instantly, twisting just in time to block the first strike. Steel clashes against steel, the impact reverberating through the room. The O Player stumbles back, but Hyun-ju is already retaliating, her blade flashing through the air.

The second O lunges - not for Hyun-ju, but for Jun-hee.

Gi-hun sees it happen a second too late.

Sees the O Player shift, sees Geum-ja step in without thinking, without hesitating.

The blade sinks into her stomach.

Time fractures.

A sickening, wet sound fills the air.

Geum-ja lets out a soft, breathless noise - a small, startled sound, like something slipping from her fingers. Her lips part, her eyes go wide, and she crumples.

"NO!" Gi-hun’s scream rips from his throat, raw, broken, a sound he doesn’t even recognize as his own.

Jun-hee’s voice follows, shattered, desperate.

Hyun-ju whirls around, her knife raised, her body coiled with fury.

The O Player yanks his knife free, stained red.

Geum-ja staggers, her knees buckling beneath her, her hands pressing weakly against the wound, like she’s trying to push the blood back inside.

But it won’t stop.

It won’t stop.

Jun-hee is sobbing, gasping, trying to move, trying to get to her, but her body is too weak, and Hyun-ju is already throwing herself between them, blade raised, stance wide, a living shield.

The O’s pause. But Hyun-ju doesn’t.

She moves fast, her knife flashing out, slicing cleanly across the arm of the nearest O Player.

A sharp snarl of pain rips from his throat as he stumbles back, clutching the wound, blood spilling hot and fast through his fingers.

Hyun-ju doesn’t press the attack.  She just stands there, planted, chest heaving, eyes wild and unblinking. Her knife is steady, pointed straight at the next one who dares to try.

A wordless threat.

They hesitate, staring at her, then at Jun-hee, the baby, the blood. Weighing their odds, measuring risk.

Two against one - but one of them is already injured. But Hyun-ju is not just a fighter.

In this moment, she’s a killer.

They know it.

The hesitation lasts one breath too long.

And finally, they step back.

The camera focuses on Geum-ja’s body, on the blood pooling beneath her, dark and spreading.

"Ah, well," Buffalo Mask sighs, stretching. "We all knew that old bat wasn’t making it out anyway."

"A waste, though," Deer Mask hums. "She had skill."

"Mmm," Panther Mask muses, tilting his head. "Fascinating trade-off. One life enters the world, another leaves it."

For a second, all that’s left is the sound of Jun-hee’s broken sobs and the baby’s soft, whimpering cries. But then, Geum-ja makes a sound.

A quiet, wet gasp, barely audible, barely anything at all.

Hyun-ju turns and her knife drops from her fingers. She kneels beside Geum-ja.

"Geum-ja."

Geum-ja is still curled in on herself, one frail hand pressed against the gaping wound in her stomach, as if she can hold herself together through sheer will alone. Her breath is ragged, shallow. There’s blood on her lips now.

Hyun-ju grabs her wrist gently, her grip strong, steady, unrelenting. 

"Geum-ja, look at me."

Geum-ja tries. Her eyelids flutter, unfocused, struggling. She swallows, her throat working around words that never quite form. Then, slowly, with the last of her strength, she tilts her head toward Jun-hee. Toward the baby.

She exhales.

And then, she doesn’t breathe in again.

Hyun-ju shakes her gently. "No, no, wait. Geum-ja, stay with me. Just a little longer. Please."

No answer.

Hyun-ju’s fingers tremble. "Please. Geum-ja!"

Still nothing.

Jun-hee is sobbing, her voice small, but Gi-hun can barely hear her over the sound of his own heartbeat. He hides his face in his hands, his fingers pressing hard against his temples, his body shaking.

She had nothing left. Had already lost everything in the Fourth Game, her son stolen from her. And yet, she kept standing. Kept walking. Kept breathing, even when there was nothing inside her but grief and exhaustion and silence thick with ghosts.

She could have let herself crumble, could have let herself be swallowed by the weight of it all. But she didn’t.

She held the others up instead.

She helped bring a life into this world just minutes ago. Minutes ago. She had smiled at that baby, at his mother, like it meant something, like it had been enough, like she had been given one last chance to fight for life instead of just waiting for death.

And now she is gone. Just like that.

Hyun-ju reaches up, hand shaking, and gently presses Geum-ja’s eyelids shut.

The door groans open.

The sound barely cuts through the wreckage of Jun-hee’s sobs, through the suffocating stillness that follows a death. But it cuts through Gi-hun. He knows what comes next.

Two Circle Guards step inside, carrying a coffin. Behind them follows a Square Guard, movements cold, efficient, every step echoing softly in the heavy quiet.

Gi-hun watches numbly as they approach Geum-ja’s small, crumpled form.

Hyun-ju, still kneeling by Geum-ja’s side, finally snaps from her daze. Her eyes widen, the reality slamming into her with sudden, wrenching force, and she reaches out instinctively, gripping Geum-ja’s lifeless arm.

“Wait, wait! No, please, not yet!”

But the Circle Guards don’t falter. They move as if she isn’t there, as if her hands aren’t clinging desperately to Geum-ja’s sleeve, as if the sob tearing from Hyun-ju’s throat isn’t echoing raw and frantic through the air.

“Please!” Hyun-ju’s voice breaks, something in it shattering helplessly. Her knuckles whiten, fingers trembling violently against Geum-ja’s sleeve. “She deserves more than this, please-!”

Geum-ja’s body is lifted into the waiting coffin, and the lid drops into place with an awful, final thud.

Hyun-ju falls silent, a shattered sound dying in her throat. Her hands hover uselessly in the air for a moment, trembling, before dropping to her sides.

Jun-hee’s cries grow louder, echoing through the room.

The Square Guard steps past Geum-ja’s coffin, past Hyun-ju’s trembling body, and toward Jun-hee - toward the baby.

Gi-hun’s body goes rigid. "No-" he breathes, the word barely audible even to himself.

The Guard reaches down, pulling the newborn from Jun-hee’s limp, exhausted arms. The emptiness settles in slowly, Jun-hee’s sobbing faltering into silence for a split second as she registers the sudden void against her chest.

And then-

She screams.

“My baby - NO! MY BABY!”

Against every law of logic and biology, Jun-hee staggers up from the bed, her limbs shaking violently, blood trailing down her legs. She lunges forward, impossibly desperate and determined, but her legs buckle immediately beneath her, sending her crashing down onto the floor.

"My baby! NO! PLEASE! BRING HIM BACK!"

She claws helplessly at the empty air, fingers outstretched toward the child, her voice dissolving into raw, incoherent agony. Gi-hun feels the sound in his bones, vibrating in his chest.

Hyun-ju surges forward instantly, her hands outstretched toward the Guard. She reaches for the infant, desperate, savage, unstoppable-

Until a gunshot cracks violently through the air.

It echoes deafeningly off the walls, reverberating inside Gi-hun’s head.

The baby screams. The cry shrieks into something even more agonizing, the baby’s tiny lungs straining, his body convulsing in the Guard’s arms.

Hyun-ju freezes, breathing harsh and quick, eyes fixed on the Guard. The Square Guard stands perfectly still, the barrel of his gun pointed upwards, smoke drifting lazily from the barrel. Slowly, he lowers it, leveling the gun directly toward Hyun-ju’s chest.

Hyun-ju’s eyes burn with rage. She stares at the weapon unflinchingly, daring him, willing him to shoot or step back, anything but leave with the baby.

But the Square Guard simply turns away, taking the child with him.

The baby’s cries grow distant, muffled by the heavy steel door as it slams shut behind them.

Jun-hee screams again, a high, keening wail that slices through the room, through flesh and bone, through Gi-hun’s very soul.

"What the fuck just happened?!" he screams at the Front Man, breath ragged, fists trembling at his sides. "Where are you taking him?! WHERE-"

"The child is not a Player," the Front Man says evenly. "He does not belong in the dormitory. He is being taken care of."

Gi-hun lets out a sharp, cold laugh. "Oh, sure. Taken care of. Right. Because I don’t know what happens in this godforsaken place."

The Front Man tilts his head, gaze locked solely on him.

Gi-hun’s voice is dripping with venom. "I know what happens to the bodies that leave through those doors. I know what happens when profit means more than people. I know what your Guards do when they get bored - how they play doctor.”

The VIPs' laughter falters, amusement curling into something quieter.

Eagle Mask hums, watching the Front Man carefully. "I assume you put an end to such... unregulated transactions?" His words are light, but there’s a sharpness beneath them, a test.

The Front Man is silent for a moment. 

"Those involved were eliminated." His voice is cold. Absolute. "It is no longer a concern."

Gi-hun scoffs, shaking his head. "You actually believe that shit stopped? Sure, maybe the last ones got caught. But someone else always picks up the business, don’t they? That’s how it works here." He lets the words sit, lets them breathe. "You think it just disappeared?”

The VIPs exchange glances, their curiosity turning into something closer to intrigue.

"And how exactly do you know all this?" Lion Mask asks, voice light but edged.

Gi-hun inhales, controlling the rage simmering in his gut. 

"Because I talked to the cop who infiltrated this place four years ago.”

Silence.

A heavy, stretching silence.

The Front Man stiffens, just slightly. But Gi-hun catches the reaction.

It’s subtle - too subtle - but Gi-hun knows what he saw. A flicker of something beneath the mask. A fracture in the polished, impenetrable exterior.

"Ohhh," Panther Mask drawls, tilting his head. "That one was a pretty thing. Shame, really. I didn’t even get to finish playing with him before he got all... aggressive."

Gi-hun’s stomach churns with disgust, but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes remain locked on the Front Man.

The Front Man says nothing, his posture rigid, unreadable. But something is wrong. Gi-hun sees it now. The way his shoulders tense. The way his hands twitch, just barely, at his sides.

"I met him," Gi-hun continues, his voice quieter now, but cutting deeper. "And we talked. About everything. About you." His eyes flick toward the VIPs. "About them." Then back to the Front Man. "And about the Guards. Their hobbies. Their side projects."

He pauses, letting the weight of his next words settle. Gi-hun watches the Front Man closely, waiting. Hunting.

"How they carve up the dead. How they rip out kidneys, livers, corneas - anything with a price tag.” Gi-hun exhales sharply. “And how sometimes the Players are still alive when they do it. What do you think a baby’s organs are worth, huh? Premium price, I bet. Untouched. Unscarred. Perfect for the right buyer. Isn’t that right?"

A crackling silence lingers between them, thick with something unspoken.

"The baby is fine.” the Front Man repeats, his voice smooth, absolute. Final. “This conversation is over."

Gi-hun scoffs, the breath rushing out of him like something bitter he’s been choking on. His head tilts, gaze narrowing. That’s it? That’s the answer? That’s all he gets after all of that? No reaction to the organ trade, no anger, no denial - just a shut door.

No. Not just that. There was a reaction.

Just not to the organ trade.

Not to the Guards carving people up like fucking livestock, not to the dead left half-alive on operating tables while some sick bastard digs inside them like they’re scooping seeds out of a melon.

Not to any of that.

But to the cop.

Why?  

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, forcing his brain to slow down, to rewind the moment frame by frame. Something about that mention hit him. It didn’t just surprise him - it pierced through something. A nerve. A wound. Something personal.

Jun-ho. A cop infiltrating the island. A man searching for his brother. 

The pieces are shifting, snapping together, the shape of something horrible coming into focus.

A man who-

A wail cuts through the air, raw and shattering.

Gi-hun’s head whips toward the screen and what he sees feels like a gut punch.

Jun-hee is on the ground, screaming. Not just crying - screaming, her voice shaking with an agony that feels like it’s splitting her in half. Her hands claw at the empty space in front of her, reaching for something that isn’t there. Her baby. Her child.

Hyun-ju kneels beside her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, but she isn’t whispering reassurances. She isn’t telling Jun-hee that everything is going to be okay - because it won’t be. They both know that. There is no comfort in the way Hyun-ju holds her. Just grief. Just shared devastation.

Gi-hun watches them. And something inside him ignites.

"Let me see the baby."

His voice is sharp, clipped. An order.

The VIPs laugh.

"Oh, he thinks he has a say in this," Buffalo Mask snickers.

Gi-hun doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His body is taut, coiled.

He turns to the Front Man.

"I don’t know why the fuck you refuse to answer me," he snarls, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "But if you’re so goddamn sure he’s fine, then show me. Let me see him. Right. Now.” His voice is rising, cracking with the force of his anger. "And I am not shutting up until you do."

The VIPs howl.

"Oh, this is delightful," Panther Mask practically purrs. "So angry."

Gi-hun slams his hands on the table, his body vibrating with rage. "DO YOU HEAR ME?! If you don’t show me that baby, I will not stop! I will make sure you all regret putting me in this fucking room!"

The laughter is louder now, sharper, mocking.

And then-

“Fine.”

The room pauses.

Not silent, not entirely, but something shifts. The laughter doesn’t die, but it slows.

Gi-hun’s breath comes fast, hard, his chest burning - and yet, for a split second, he doesn’t know what to say.

He was ready for another threat. Another warning.

But just a word. Fine.

Just like that.

Something is wrong.

The Front Man never bends. So why now? Why did this work?

Gi-hun doesn’t have time to figure it out.

“Follow me,” the Front Man orders, turning sharply.

Before stepping away, he tilts his head toward the VIPs, voice smooth, composed, perfectly polite.

“I apologize. Please, continue enjoying yourselves.”

Gi-hun seethes. He rips the translator device from his ear and throws it onto the floor. "Fucking disgusting," he mutters, his glare burning into them.

Then he turns and follows.

As they approach the exit, two Triangle Guards step in beside him. One reaches for his arm.

Gi-hun snaps, jerking away. "I can fucking walk."

They don’t try again.

A blindfold is slipped over his eyes.

Gi-hun lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want to forget the blindfold.”

No response. Fine. He doesn’t need one.

They walk in silence.

With his vision taken, the air around him becomes everything. The soft, near-silent footsteps of the Guards just behind him. The barely perceptible shuffle of fabric when they shift. The presence of the Front Man, moving at his side.

Close. Too close.

The darkness is suffocating. It takes away his bearings, throws him into an abyss of nothingness, and the only thing anchoring him is him. The sound of his steps. The weight of his presence, just a breath away.

Gi-hun grits his teeth. He hates that he notices it.

His fingers twitch at his sides, an awful, shameful instinct flaring up before he can stop it. His body wants to reach - to find something in the dark, to confirm that the Front Man is still right there. That he isn’t alone.

Just a flick of his fingers, just enough to brush against that coat, just enough to-

No.

Gi-hun swallows hard, his throat dry. His hands stay curled at his sides, trembling, his entire body straining against the wrongness of it.

He won’t touch him. He won’t fucking do it. He will not give in to this sick, conditioned response. He will not seek out him.

He forces his voice out instead.

"Is he alive?" Gi-hun demands, the anger in his voice barely masking the restlessness simmering beneath his skin. "The baby. Is he alive?"

The Front Man doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Gi-hun exhales through his nose, sharp and hard. “Where?”

“The child is being kept in a medical facility.”

Gi-hun stiffens. "What does that mean?" His voice sharpens, his steps quicken. "What the hell does that mean?"

Silence.

Gi-hun’s teeth grind together. "And Jun-hee?" His voice is ice-cold. "Is she getting medical attention? Or are you leaving her there to fucking die?!"

“Player 222 remains in the dormitory.”

Gi-hun seethes. “I know where she is! I’m asking if you’re actually going to help her, or if you’re just going to let her bleed out!” His voice is rising again, all heat and fury. “She was cut open. She just gave birth. How the fuck do you expect her to survive the next Game?!"

“The Games remain equal,” the Front Man says. “Every Player faces the same conditions.”

Gi-hun laughs. A sharp, bitter thing. "Equal? Equal?! Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

Silence.

Gi-hun shakes his head, disgust curling in his gut. "Always the same excuse. Like it means anything. Like it justifies any of this."

The rage inside him is clawing now, scraping its way up his throat. His body still burns with frustration, with helplessness, with the awful, unwanted sensation of needing something to hold onto in the dark.

And suddenly, the air around Gi-hun feels warmer. The kind of warmth that doesn’t just exist - it’s controlled, adjusted to a precise temperature, maintained at an artificial equilibrium.

Gi-hun blinks, his vision adjusting after the blindfold is removed, pupils contracting against the fluorescent glow. He barely notices the Triangle Guards stepping back, because his gaze is already moving, searching, registering.

Everything is too clean. The walls are smooth and gleaming white, just like his cell. The metallic cabinets are lined up in perfect symmetry, the tiled floor is so polished it almost reflects his own shaking, exhausted frame back at him. It’s a different kind of horror than the dormitory. Not the grime of bodies stacked on top of each other, not the damp stench of blood and sweat and desperation.

This place is quiet. Controlled.

A figure catches his eye.

At first glance, just another Guard. A Square Mask.

But... wrong. Different.

The others - the ones in the Games, the ones watching over the Players, the ones who escort Gi-hun - they wear pink. This one is in black.

Not an enforcer or a grunt. No. Gi-hun is sure he is someone with authority.

A black jumpsuit, black gloves, boots polished to a sharp shine, the cut of his uniform crisp and precise. He stands apart from the lower ranks, hands clasped neatly behind his back, unmoving, watching the medical staff.

Recognition slams into him like a fist to the gut.

He was there. During the rebellion.

Standing beside the Front Man when he executed Jung-bae, watching, unmoving. Just like now.

Then, Gi-hun hears it. A soft sound.

His head snaps to the side.

A Circle Guard stands near the far end of the room, bottle in hand, feeding something small, wrapped in clean, white fabric.

The baby.

His throat locks.

The baby is clean. Damp tufts of dark hair stick to his forehead, curling slightly at the edges, his tiny hands curled into tight fists against his chest. His face is round, soft, pink-cheeked from the warmth of the room. His eyes are closed as he drinks, his small mouth working steadily around the bottle’s rubber nipple, his fragile chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths.

He’s alive.

Not covered in blood. Not blue. Not abandoned, gasping for air in some back room, a casualty of the Games before he even got a chance to exist.

A sound leaves Gi-hun’s throat, half-formed, choked back before it can take shape.

He shouldn’t be relieved.

He should be furious.

Because what does this mean? Why is he here? Why is he being cared for like this? Why is there a Circle Guard feeding him like this is just any other day in this nightmare?

Nothing in this place is done out of kindness.

The Front Man speaks.

"Report."

The Circle Guard gently places the baby in the crib before straightening, bottle still in hand, and responding without hesitation. His voice is flat, empty, like this is just another routine update on inventory.

"Infant was cleaned. Measured and weighed. Physical examination conducted - no abnormalities. Body temperature normal. Soon to be administered HBV immunization."

The words are detached, like the child is another piece of data to be processed, another object to be shuffled through the system.

A human being, stripped down to numbers on a clipboard.

Suddenly,  a cry.

A small, weak sound - thin and wavering, but it shatters the room’s fragile silence.

Gi-hun’s breath catches, his instincts screaming at him to move, to do something, but he isn’t the first one to react.

The Front Man steps forward.

Gi-hun stares, rooted to the spot as he watches the man lower his hands, lean down, and lift the baby from the crib like this is something he’s done a thousand times before.

The baby doesn’t settle immediately, his soft whimpers shaking against the fabric of the Front Man’s coat, his tiny hands searching, grasping, reaching for something familiar that isn’t there. Gi-hun doesn’t move, his brain struggling to process this image, this moment, because it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t make sense, it-

The Front Man shifts his grip, adjusting the baby’s weight effortlessly, his gloved hand smoothing over the blanket. 

Gi-hun clenches his fists at his sides. The room is warm, but there’s a chill spreading through his bones, a slow, creeping thing that drags itself down into his gut. 

Because what the hell is Gi-hun supposed to do with this?

The Front Man, the same man who watches people die with cold detachment, who orchestrates the most gruesome displays of human suffering like he’s conducting a fucking symphony - is holding a newborn like he belongs to him.

Gi-hun watches, eyes burning, as the baby calms, little hiccups shaking through his tiny chest before settling into slow, steady breaths. The infant shifts slightly, his head pressed against the solid weight of the Front Man’s shoulder, his tiny fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his coat.

He is safe. Held.

Like this is natural. Like this is right.

Gi-hun’s head is spinning. He can’t breathe properly, can’t think past-

"Would you like to hold him?" 

The Front Man turns to him.

The words hit Gi-hun like a punch to the chest.

He blinks. Stares.

His breath shudders out of him, because what the fuck kind of question is that?

Not because it’s wrong, not because it doesn’t make sense, but because the way the Front Man says it doesn’t match the rest of him.

There’s something different in his voice. Something quieter, that shouldn’t be there.

Gi-hun doesn’t answer. 

The Front Man doesn’t wait for permission.

He takes a step closer.

And then - his hands shift.

Not offering, guiding. Placing the baby in Gi-hun’s arms.

Gi-hun reacts too late. He doesn’t brace himself properly, doesn’t adjust his stance before the weight is passed to him, and his arms nearly fumble under the unexpected warmth of a real, living thing pressed against his chest.

But before he can panic, before he can even think, the Front Man is there. His hands, steady, patient, adjust Gi-hun’s grip, positioning his arms correctly, fingers ghosting over the crook of his elbow, smoothing up to his wrist.

"Support his head."

Gi-hun exhales shakily, his brain lagging behind his body, letting himself be guided without resistance. 

"Place this arm higher - yes. That’s it."

The gloved hand presses against the inside of Gi-hun’s elbow, adjusting the way he holds the baby, keeping him steady. 

"Hold him close to your body. Make him feel warm."

His grip tightens around the baby, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of the blanket. He isn’t thinking about what this soft touch from the Front Man means. He can’t.

Instead, he looks down at the tiny face peeking out from the folds of white.

The baby is so small. So warm, his fingers twitching slightly before curling into a loose, sleepy fist.

A quiet inhale. A slow exhale.

Gi-hun knows this weight.

The thought slams into him so violently it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

Because he has felt this before. Not like this, not with this child, but he knows what this is supposed to feel like.

His daughter. Ga-yeong.

He wasn’t there when she was born.

He should have seen the first time she cried, the first time she opened her eyes to the world. He should have been the first arms she ever knew, the first warmth she curled into.

But instead, he had been at the factory, watching a man die in front of him while his wife lay alone in a hospital bed, bringing their daughter into a world where he was already failing her.

And after that?

When she was new and small and fragile, when she needed him the most, he hadn’t been there either. He had been throwing money at horse races, drinking himself into oblivion, losing weeks to the blur of neon-lit betting booths and empty bottles, spending away the time he should have been holding her.

And now, she is grown. Half a world away, learning how to live without him. Because she has no reason to believe he will ever be there when she needs him.

Because he never was.

Gi-hun swallows hard, his throat aching.

And now, here he is, holding a child that isn’t his. A child that wasn’t meant to exist in a place like this. A child who would never remember him, never know him, never even know this moment happened.

He shifts slightly, lifts a hand - hesitant, uncertain, unworthy - and places his finger near the baby’s tiny, open palm. He barely lets himself touch, just a whisper of skin against skin, afraid of something he can’t name.

For a second, nothing. Then-

A small twitch. A soft, instinctual movement. Tiny, warm fingers flex, grasping blindly before curling around his own. Holding on.

Gi-hun sucks in a breath. The warmth of it - so small, so impossibly real - claws into his chest, dragging something out of him that he doesn’t know how to fight. 

The baby holds onto him without knowing who he is. Without knowing what kind of man he is. Without knowing that Gi-hun has never been someone to rely on. That he has failed again and again in every place a father should not fail.

He just holds on.

And God, it hurts.

Gi-hun exhales, the breath catching in his throat.

And for just a moment, despite himself, despite everything, he almost smiles.

But he suddenly hears sound. A soft, warm chuckle.

Gi-hun’s head snaps up, his pulse jumping like a startled animal, throat tightening as he processes - no, refuses to process - what he just heard.

There is no way that the sound that just left the Front Man was a laugh.

And yet, it happened.

Gi-hun knows it because he felt it. The reverberation of it, too close, traveling through fabric, through air, through the tiny space that barely exists between them. It was real, wasn’t it? He heard it, didn’t he? It wasn’t a trick of his mind. It wasn’t-

God.

He doesn’t know.

His hands are sweating. His lungs feel like they’ve been hollowed out, scooped clean, and he is choking on the empty space inside himself because the Front Man - this man, this thing that exists in the shape of a man but moves like something far beyond human - is now touching the baby’s hand.

And the baby likes it.

A small, satisfied sigh escapes from the newborn’s lips. Gi-hun’s pulse stutters violently, erratic, slipping out of sync with his own body because no, no, no, no - this doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit.

Gi-hun swallows. And then, just when his mind can barely process the pieces of reality slipping through his fingers, the Front Man turns his head - just slightly - and says something that breaks him.

"The baby likes you."

Something collapses inside Gi-hun

“You have a… comforting presence.” The Front Man adds.

It is such a small thing, so gentle in the way it is spoken, but it destroys him because no one - no one - has ever said that to him before. Not about his own daughter. Not about anyone.

Because Gi-hun is not someone people like. He is a wreck of a man, a man whose life has been built from the crumbling ruin of every bad decision, every failure, every mistake that has turned his body into a thing barely held together by desperation and regret.

Gi-hun is not comforting.

He is a man who let his mother die because he stopped paying for her health insurance, because he would rather spend the money on gambling.

He is a man who let his daughter slip from his fingers, let her be taken across an ocean because she deserved a father who could hold a job for more than a week at a time.

He is a man who cannot trust his own mind anymore. Because what kind of man talks to ghosts? What kind of man hears the voice of someone who has been dead for years, standing in front of him, tilting his head just so, speaking with a knowing smile, pointing out the nervous ticks Gi-hun never knew he had?

He is a man who should not be holding a child. Because everything he touches turns to ash.

He is a man who once believed he could be a hero. That he could tear this place apart, could drag its rotted heart into the light, could save the people trapped inside. He fought for them, he swore he would. And yet he holds this baby, knowing his mother will die. Knowing Jun-hee will die. Because he didn’t do enough. Because he could have fought harder, acted faster, been better.

He is a man who let his best friend die. Who stood there, breathless and frozen, while the Front Man pulled the trigger and watched the blood bloom from his Jung-bae’s chest like a beautiful, grotesque flower. 

He is a man who, despite knowing exactly what the Front Man is - despite seeing that cold, merciless precision firsthand - still finds himself steady in his presence, still feels something disturbingly close to relief in the nearness of the man who ended Jung-bae without hesitation.

And that is the worst thing.

Because Gi-hun is standing here, reeling from the weight of his own thoughts, shaking so badly that the baby in his arms stirs from the tremors in his hands, and the only thing keeping him upright, the only thing anchoring him in this moment, is him.

The Front Man.

He sees it. And he touches him.

A hand presses against Gi-hun’s arm. A single point of contact. Not forceful or controlling. Just there.

And the world around Gi-hun tilts.

Because it is not the first time he has done this.

Because there have been so many times before this- so many moments in which that hand has touched him, adjusted him, guided him, held him.

Gi-hun wants to throw up. Because this time, like all the others, the touch steadies him. Because that one press of fingers against his arm grounds him, pulls him back from the edge, makes him feel less alone.

Because for a moment, his breathing slows. His hands steady. The world stops spinning.

And then the Front Man speaks again, soft, assured.

"It’s alright.”

No. No, no, no - he can’t say it like that. Like it’s true. Like it’s a fact. Like the world isn’t falling apart, like Jun-hee isn’t dying, like Gi-hun himself isn’t unraveling second by second. He can’t say it like that and expect Gi-hun to believe it.

Except he does.

"You’re alright. Just breathe."

And fuck, Gi-hun actually believes him. That everything is going to be alright.

The words settle in his brain, click into place where reason should be, and he believes it.

The moment stretches, holds, thickens with something unbearable because Gi-hun is standing there, body frozen, breath caught, and the Front Man is still touching him. Gi-hun is aware of every inch of him, the solid weight of his presence, the impossible warmth beneath that cold, clinical exterior - until something unsettles the air, sharpens the edges of the room, drags his attention sideways.

He catches it. The movement. In the corner of his eye.

The Square Guard. Standing there. Watching them.

And not just watching Gi-hun.

Watching the Front Man.

A different kind of watching. Not the detached, impersonal observation of a man assigned to stand there, silent and obedient. No, this is something else.

Gi-hun barely shifts his gaze, but he sees it. The way the Guard’s head tilts, the stiff way his shoulders square, how his stance shifts in awareness.

He sees it. The same way Gi-hun sees it.

Because this is not how prisoners are treated.

This is not how the Front Man should be behaving.

And the Guard knows it.

Gi-hun now is acutely aware of the hand still on his arm, the weight of it, the deliberate gentleness in the touch that does not belong here.

And then - the Front Man's mask shifts, tilting toward the Square Guard.

They lock eyes.

Gi-hun can’t see the expression beneath the mask, but he doesn’t have to. Because he feels it. The weight of the silence between them, the understanding that is exchanged in nothing but a flicker of motion, in the smallest shift of the Guard’s stance, in the unspoken judgment hanging in the air like a knife balanced on its edge.

The Guard has been looking at his boss this whole time. At the way he has been standing too close. At the way he has been touching Gi-hun. At the way his voice, just moments ago, was soft, careful, human.

The weight of the gaze presses down, cold and unforgiving.

Finally, the Front Man pulls away, with a kind of awareness that wasn’t there before. As if the simple act of distance will erase softness in his touch.

As if the Square Guard will forget.

As if Gi-hun will.

But the second the Front Man is gone, Gi-hun feels it like a void opening in his chest. The absence is immediate, brutal, obscene, too fucking wrong.

The warmth is gone. The air is colder now, heavier, tainted by the knowledge that they have been seen.

Gi-hun turns and walks. Each step away from the Front Man feels like ripping himself away from something, though he refuses to name it, refuses to acknowledge the instinct screaming at him to turn back.

He reaches the crib.

His arms feel stiff, his fingers too hesitant as he lowers the baby into it. He settles him carefully, ensuring the blanket is wrapped tightly, ensuring he is warm - because someone has to be.

Then, silence.

He exhales. His hands hover for a second too long before he finally forces himself to step away.

His voice comes out flat.

“What happens next?” The words carve through the air, hollow, stripped of whatever had been there before. He doesn’t look at the Front Man, but he feels him shift. “To the baby, I mean.”

The Front Man does not turn immediately. He lingers for a second, as if debating whether to dignify the question at all.  But then the unreadable black void of his mask shifts toward Gi-hun.

“If the mother survives, the child will be given to her.”

It’s the tone. That same, smooth, controlled tone that he’s used to, that he’s heard before, that he expected - but somehow, after everything, after the impossible softness of just a moment ago, after that touch - it feels colder. Like something that had been there was just ripped away.

“If she does not, he will be placed into foster care.”

A decision made. A life already assigned its course before it has even truly begun.

Gi-hun’s jaw locks.

Foster care. Like that means anything. Like that makes anything better. Like it isn’t just another way to throw him into a world that doesn’t want him. A child born from blood and games and spectacle. A child who, like every other body in this place, was never meant to survive.

Gi-hun forces his voice to stay steady.

“And that’s it?”

The Front Man does not answer. He does not need to.

Because Gi-hun already knows.

This baby has no name. No history. No family, unless Jun-hee survives the impossible.

And if she doesn’t, he will disappear. Just like everything else in this place. Processed like another number in a system designed to devour people whole.

And something inside Gi-hun snaps.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

Gi-hun can feel something buzzing in his skull, something that wants to tear through the mask, through the detachment, through the blank, fucking silence of it all.

“Keeping him alive.” The Front Man answers, calm and detached.

That’s it. That’s the answer. Simple. Efficient. Like the discussion of a machine, not a life. 

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe Gi-hun should let it go. But something in him refuses, something still fights against the gravity of this place, against the impossible weight of it all.

"And I’m supposed to take your word for that?" His voice is low, rough-edged. "The word of a murderer?"

The Front Man doesn’t react for a while. He stands there, silent, watching him, unreadable. Then-

"I have never lied to you."

The words land like a quiet, immovable thing, slipping past his defenses before he can stop them. He wants to refute it, to tear it apart, to prove it wrong - because surely there has to be a lie in there somewhere, a thread to unravel, a reason not to believe him.

But there isn’t.

Because the truth is worse.

The truth is that the Front Man has never needed to lie.

"You must be tired," the Front Man continues, voice smooth. "You should rest now."

Gi-hun’s breath catches. He looks at him, studies him, tries to find the hidden meaning beneath the words.

Rest.

That means his cell.

Not the VIPs' room. Hell, he wanted to. Wanted to make sure Jun-hee and Hyun-ju survived the night, to make sure they weren’t just discarded while he was locked away somewhere else, unable to do a damn thing.

Gi-hun swallows hard. “I thought-” He stops himself, then tries again. "I thought I was going back to that room."

The Front Man doesn’t move.

"No," he says, final and absolute. "You need to rest. To be prepared for tomorrow. It will be a special day."

Gi-hun’s stomach turns, an awful, sinking weight pulling at his ribs. He already knows the answer before he asks the question, but he has to ask it anyway.

"Why?"

"Because tomorrow is the Last Game."

A chill crawls up Gi-hun’s spine. He forces himself to stand straighter, to hold onto something - his anger, his doubt, anything but the growing sense of dread curling in his chest.

"And how the fuck do you know the Players won’t vote to leave?"

The answer comes without hesitation.

"Because desperation outweighs morality."

Gi-hun feels his blood run cold.

"Because the closer people are to the end," the Front Man continues, "the more convinced they become that they deserve to win."

Gi-hun knows he’s right.

He’s seen it before. He’s lived it.

That when survival is inches away, morality becomes something pliable, something people twist and reshape until it fits whatever they need it to be.

The silence between them stretches, thick with something unsaid.

Then, softly, almost offhand-

"You’ll want to be cleaned up for what comes next."

Before Gi-hun can react, hands are on him. The blindfold slips over his eyes, plunging him into darkness, severing him from the room, from the warmth, from the impossible weight of everything that just passed between them.

Gi-hun is led forward, away from the room, away from the crib, away from the only thing that tethered him to something real. 

And just as the door shuts behind him, just as he is swallowed by the silence of the unknown, he hears it.

"Rest well, Player 456.”

Notes:

And that’s the chapter!

What did we learn today? That Gi-hun is having the worst time (as usual), the Front Man has an alarming amount of gentleness hidden under all that menace, and the tension? Thicker than the plot itself.

Now, onto the real tragedy of this chapter - our totally-not-suspicious, completely ordinary, definitely unfamiliar Circle Guard was nowhere to be found. I know. It hurts. It feels wrong. It’s practically a war crime at this point. But don’t worry, he’ll make his return in the next update. And, well… if you think Gi-hun is already losing his mind, just wait.

As always, I love reading your comments, it genuinely keeps me going. No, really. Scream at me. Yell at me. I welcome it.

See you next time. Love you all <3

Chapter 6

Notes:

Hi, hello, yes - it’s me again.

Somehow you're still here and I don’t know whether to thank you or apologize. No, no, seriously - thank you for sticking with this fic, for caring, for spiraling with me. I genuinely didn’t expect this story to become what it is.

And this chapter… yeah. This chapter especially surprised me. I didn’t plan for it to go this way. I didn’t plan for a lot of things. But here we are. So, buckle in. Brace yourselves. Yell at me in the comments if you need to.

See you on the other side.

There’s no cold here. No hunger. No thirst. No weight pressing down on his chest.

No voice echoing through loudspeakers.

No masks.

No blood.

Just sun.

Gi-hun is barefoot, the sand warm beneath his feet, clinging in lazy, soft kisses to his ankles. His toes sink slightly with each step, and he lets it. There’s no rush here. The wind is salty and sweet -  the kind of breeze that smells like laughter, like sunscreen and watermelon, like summer afternoons that never end.

The  sea stretches out, calm and glittering, waves curling against the shore in a slow, drowsy rhythm. Its voice is low and familiar, a lullaby he didn’t know he missed.

His legs are tan. Really tan. Like he’s been out here for weeks. Months. Like he hasn’t known stress in years. The shorts hanging low on his hips are sun-bleached and frayed at the hem, paired with a loose white shirt, half-unbuttoned and fluttering gently in the breeze. 

Ga-yeong is ahead of him, sprinting across the sand, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Her oversized sunglasses, clearly stolen from an adult, slide down her nose, and she keeps pushing them up with a dramatic flair that makes him grin.

She’s fourteen now. Taller. Stronger. But her laughter hasn’t changed -  high and wild and bright enough to break something open in his chest.

“Catch up, old man!” she calls, her red octopus kite bobbing wildly in the air above her.

Gi-hun jogs after her, laughing between breaths. “I’m fifty-one, not eighty!”

“Same difference!”

He fakes offense. “Wow. Just - wow.”

They stop near the waterline, both of them breathing hard. Their kites twist above them, strings tangled, but neither of them seems to mind. The sun catches in her hair, and for a second he just  looks  at her -  taking her in. Alive. Real. Smiling that crooked little smile she must’ve gotten from him.

He lets himself fall back onto the sand, propping himself up on his elbows, head tilted toward the sky.

“I’m just surprised you’re letting me hang out with you,” he says. “Figured you’d be too cool for your dad by now.”

Ga-yeong shrugs. “Mom said I should be nice to you today.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She flashes him a grin. “You’re not  that  lame. Just... medium lame.”

“Great. Can’t wait to put that on a t-shirt.”

They sit like that for a bit, kites tugging softly on their strings, the wind brushing their skin like a blessing. Gi-hun leans his head back, eyes fluttering closed.

“I missed this,” he says, quietly.

Ga-yeong doesn't answer right away. She fiddles with her kite string, then lowers her sunglasses to peer at him over the frames.

He turns to her slowly. “I’m sorry.”

She exhales through her nose, but it’s not annoyed. Just... calm. Thoughtful.

“I know,”  she says gently.

He swallows.  “I should’ve been better.”  

She tilts her head, thoughtful.  “You wanted to be.”

“I didn’t try hard enough.”

“You wanted to,” she repeats, firmer now, like that means more. “That counts for something.”

He looks at her, eyes burning. His throat tightens, words trapped somewhere behind everything he’s never been able to say.  

She just smiles -  small, lopsided, and so familiar it aches.

"You always came back, Appa. That’s what mattered.”

“What if I can’t this time?”

Ga-yeong tilts her head, lips pursing a little as she studies him. There’s something older in her eyes now - not jaded, just  aware .

She shrugs. “You never quit.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You get beat up, you fall down, you mess everything up a hundred times-" she shoots him a sideways look, “-but you keep going anyway. You always have.”  

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she says, nudging his elbow with hers. “You’re... too annoying to give up.”

Gi-hun laughs for real then, short and surprised. Her grin widens, pleased with herself.

The wind picks up again, tugging at their kites. Then she says, quieter:

“You’re gonna make it out of there.”

  Gi-hun freezes.

“You’re gonna fight back,”  she adds. “And when you do… I want you to remember this. Right here. You’re still you, Appa. Even if they try to take that from you.”

He looks over at her. Her sunglasses have slid down again, crooked on her nose, but she doesn’t fix them this time. Her face is open, steady. Braver than he feels.

“So just... hold on a little longer, okay?”

He swallows hard.  

“Okay,”  he whispers.

And when her small hand reaches for his and laces their fingers together -  real and warm and familiar - he doesn’t let go.

Not this time.

 

SPLASH.

Ice-cold water, not enough to drown in, but enough to snap him straight out of sleep, like being punched awake. He flinches before his eyes even open, instinctively bracing for another blow.

The air is freezing.

The bed beneath him is still hard as concrete, and the light pressing into his face is stark, surgical, too bright to belong anywhere else.

He’s still here. Of course he’s still here. He never left the cell. The dream had been kind enough to let him forget that, if only for a few minutes.

He blinks, water trailing down his cheek, seeping into the collar of his shirt.

The first thing he sees is a pair of black boots just past the foot of the bed.

Then the cup. Tilted sideways, empty. A last few drops fall lazily to the floor, landing close enough that one splashes against his cheekbone. It’s almost theatrical.

He looks up, slow and sluggish, like his body doesn’t want to cooperate.

There’s a Circle Guard standing in front of him. But it’s not him. Not the one who left the food without a word. Not the one who always hesitated at the door, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t - or wouldn’t. Not the one who might’ve been, might have been…

It doesn’t matter. This one’s different.

The Guard tips the cup forward again and lets the remaining water fall to the floor with a careless flick.

“Rise and shine, Princess.”

Gi-hun blinks water out of his lashes and says nothing.

The Guard watches him with his head tilted to the side, the black mask unreadable but somehow still full of intent. He tosses a chunk of bread to the floor. Not tossed, exactly, but dropped, with precision. He doesn’t aim for the bed. He aims for the space just in front of it. Close enough that Gi-hun could reach for it, if he got down on his knees.

The bread lands with a muted thunk, rolls a bit, then settles.

“Eat up. Today’s the big day.”

Gi-hun stares at the bread. He sits up slowly, back stiff with pain, and then slowly lifts his eyes and stares at the Guard. Eyes narrowed. Not afraid. Just done.

The Guard shifts, annoyed. His weight moves from one foot to the other, and Gi-hun sees it - the expectation. He’d wanted to see it happen. Gi-hun crawling out of bed, half-starved and obedient, reaching for food like a dog that’s forgotten it used to be a man.

But Gi-hun doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Hey. I said eat it.”

Gi-hun stays where he is, muscles tight, jaw locked, and lets the silence stretch between them.

And he sees it for what it is.  A Circle Guard. The bottom of the chain. Disposable, replaceable. But not here. Not in this room. Here, with no one watching, he gets to be the one with power. He gets to kick someone lower than him and no one will stop him.

He gets to feel important.

He looks like someone who enjoys this. The silence. The wait. The promise of humiliation hanging in the air.

Gi-hun glares at him, but doesn’t move.

The Guard lets out a low laugh.

“You little shit.”

The Guard lunges. One fist closes around the collar of Gi-hun’s jacket and yanks him up so violently that his back lifts clean off the mattress. For a split second, he’s weightless, arms flailing, body trying to catch up - then gravity drags him down and he hits the floor hard, landing on his hip.

The world tilts sideways, vision jolting from impact. His shoulder lights up with pain, the same spot where the bullet tore through during the rebellion. The wound had closed, mostly. But it never really healed.

The Guard looms over him, breathing louder now. The cup clatters to the ground behind him.

Gi-hun lies still. Just for a second. Letting the burn of the fall settle in his bones.

But then, one gloved hand fists in Gi-hun’s hair, not yanking - just holding, fingers curling like he owns him.

Gi-hun flares with panic, jerking away on instinct.

“Go on,” the Guard mutters. “Pick it up.”

Gi-hun doesn’t think. He reaches out with one hand, fingers scrabbling for the bread. It’s dry, misshapen. He hates that he’s scared. He hates that his hand is shaking. He hates that part of him is already calculating how to survive the next five minutes, the next second, the next breath.

He picks it up.

“Atta boy,” the Guard mutters, and then - fucking pats his head.

Just one quick, patronizing stroke of the glove through his hair. Like he’s a dog who just learned to sit.

Gi-hun’s eyes stay on the floor. Not because he wants to, but because if he looks up, he might do something stupid. He might grab the Guard’s wrist and bite through the glove. He might spit in his face. He might scream.

He bites the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood drowns out the rest.

The Guard chuckles, satisfied, and turns to go.

And that’s when it happens.

Gi-hun’s gaze flickers, just for a second. It’s reflex. A betrayal.

He glances at the far corner of the cell. The small space between the toilet and the wall, barely visible from this angle. The place where he'd wedged the empty tuna can and biscuit wrapper the day before. Where he thought they’d be safe.

He realizes his mistake too late.

The Guard hasn’t turned his head fully yet. He catches it - that quick little eye twitch, that glimmer of movement.

He stops.

“What’s that?”

No. No no no no no.

Gi-hun’s breath catches. His body moves before his mind does. He stumbles forward, reaching, trying to block the path, get there first, dosomething-

“Don’t-!”

But the Guard’s already there.

He bends, slow and curious, like he’s savoring the moment. He crouches beside the toilet and slides his gloved hand into the narrow space with the precision of someone who knows he’s about to find something. The pause. The pullback. The quiet little huh as he examines the can and wrapper, now crumpled and stripped clean.

Gi-hun feels his stomach drop through the floor.

“Well, well,” the Guard says, rising. “What do we have here?”

He holds the items up like they’re proof of sin. He turns them over in his palm, mock-inspecting them.

Gi-hun freezes. His ears are ringing. He wants to run. He wants to hide. He wants to fucking erase this moment.

“Where did you get this?” the Guard says, voice changing. No more mockery now. Just anger. Sharp, rising. “This is our food.”

He takes a step forward. Gi-hun takes one back.

“You little fucking rat.”

Gi-hun’s back hits the wall. There’s nowhere left to go.

“Was it him?” the Guard snarls, taking another step.

He doesn’t say a name. He doesn’t have to. Gi-hun knows exactly who he means. He flinches. 

And the Guard sees it.

“Oh. Ohhh. It was, wasn’t it? Treating you like a spoiled little bitch. What’s the deal, huh? You suck him off between Games and he gives you snacks in return?”

Gi-hun's eyes flare. Those words land like spit on his face, like filth under his skin. All he sees is red. He’s so fucking tired of this - being reduced to an object, a plaything. Every time. Every fucking time.

“You fucking pig,” Gi-hun spits.

And then he moves - doesn’t think, doesn’t plan, just lets the rage break loose. White-hot, reckless, stupid. He surges forward, shoulder-first, all instinct and fury, trying to knock the Guard off balance. Not to win. Just to interrupt. To do something. He barely makes it halfway before a boot drives hard into his stomach.

The air rips out of his lungs.

He crumples. Back on the floor.

He gasps, mouth open like a fish out of water, every breath catching painfully.

The Guard chuckles, a dark sound, and steps closer, heavy boots echoing through the silent cell.

“You just don't learn, do you?” the Guard sneers. He nudges Gi-hun with his foot, rolling him slightly onto his back.

Gi-hun's eyes burn with humiliation and anger. He forces himself not to flinch as the Guard crouches down, leaning close enough that Gi-hun can see the faint glint of his eyes through the mask.

“You know,” the Guard murmurs, voice low and taunting, “word spreads fast around here. Especially about what happened during your little shower session.”

Gi-hun freezes, the memory of cold concrete, the brutal pressure of water, the terrifying grip of another Guard’s fingers twisted cruelly in his hair, dragging him up, exposing him. How helpless he'd felt. How utterly violated. And how – impossibly - someone had intervened.

"You think it's normal?" the Guard murmurs, voice dripping with contempt. "Any other Circle pulls that shit and they’d end up on the wrong side of a bullet. But not him. No one touches him, no one says a damn thing. That’s the rule. That’s the fucking law."

Gi-hun’s mind spins, the implications swirling around him, unclear yet unsettling.

The Guard tosses the empty tuna can in the air, catching it casually before shaking it mockingly in front of Gi-hun’s face.

"But maybe that can change today. I'll tell the boss about this, show him your little snacks." His voice drops to a menacing whisper. "Maybe that fucker will finally get put in his place. Maybe you both will."

Gi-hun’s heart skips. Panic grips him tighter than the pain in his ribs. "Don't," he blurts out desperately, the word cracking embarrassingly in his throat. “Don’t - please, don’t get him hurt. Just… leave him out of it.”

The Guard’s head snaps up sharply, surprise swiftly turning into amusement.

"Don't get him hurt?!" he repeats incredulously. He laughs, low and cold, shaking his head like Gi-hun is the funniest thing he’s seen all day. "You serious? You're actually worried about him?"

Gi-hun winces at the disgust in his voice, at the truth buried in the Guard’s words.

Why had he said it? Why did he care?

Whoever that Guard is - the one who lingered, who left food, who looked at him like he wasn’t a thing - he’s still one of them. A cog in the same machine. A mask. A uniform. A pair of gloved hands that could just as easily choke as offer. Still complicit.

But somehow, in the hunger and cold, that gentleness had taken root. Had started to matter. He held onto those almost-human mercies, because there was nothing else to hold.

And now, exposed like this, he hates himself for it. How little it took. How fragile he’s become. How desperately he clings to the smallest, softest thing.

The Guard steps forward, looming over Gi-hun’s trembling form, his shadow swallowing him whole.

Gi-hun braces himself, already flinching in anticipation. The first kick lands sharply against his ribs, precise, punishing enough to draw out a hiss of pain but carefully controlled to prevent real damage. Gi-hun curls instinctively, breathless as another kick strikes him square in the stomach, forcing a choked gasp past his lips.

“You're lucky." the Guard sneers, punctuating it with another kick, this one sharp to Gi-hun’s hip. "They want you pretty today. No blood, no bruises. But believe me: if it was up to me, I’d fucking ruin you."

The Guard gives him one last shove with the toe of his boot, like checking if he’s still breathing, then turns to leave without another word.

And Gi-hun just lays there, bruised, furious, and disgusted with himself.

 

 

 

Time doesn't pass in the way it should anymore.

He doesn’t remember the moment the Guards came. Only the blindfold slipping over his face, the ache in his ribs when they pulled him to his feet. Everything between that and the now is a blur of footsteps. His body sways with each turn they take, but he doesn’t bother asking where they’re going.

He already knows.

This is how it started last time. The concrete. The water. The firehose.

Cleansing, they’d called it. A mockery of purification.

The Front Man’s voice echoes in his mind: “You’ll want to be cleaned up for what comes next.”

Gi-hun swallows down bile. He keeps walking, numb, limping slightly. His knees feel waterlogged.

Then the footsteps stop.

He feels hands on the blindfold. A beat. Then light.

And he blinks into a completely different kind of quiet.

Not concrete. Not that courtyard. But a real bathroom. Unnervingly clean.

The tiles are off-white. There’s soft blue accent stripe around the edges like someone tried to make the space feel… human. There’s a short dividing wall cutting the space, separating the entrance to the bathroom from the main room.

One of the Triangle Guards exits without a word, leaving the other stationed just by the door.

Gi-hun doesn’t look at him.

The Guard speaks once.

“Past the wall.”

Gi-hun obeys.

It takes a second for him to process what he’s seeing.

There’s a toilet. An actual toilet. Not a metal bowl that hisses air like his cell’s abomination, but porcelain. With a tank.

Gi-hun stares for a long moment. He reaches down, hesitates, and flushes it. Water swirls. Loud and mundane and utterly miraculous.

His lips part slightly in something close to awe. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound.

To the left, there’s a small basin. A sink with a stainless-steel tap. A sliver of soap rests on the edge, oddly polite. Above it, a mirror.

He stares. And the breath leaves him.

His face is - God. It's all angles now. His jaw has sharpened into something fragile, and his cheeks have caved just slightly at the sides.

His beard is unkempt - not impressive or masculine, just patchy, irregular. The kind of growth that comes from poor nutrition, stress, and sleeplessness. It's uneven along his jaw, fuller near the chin, sparse along the sides. Bits of wiry black curl at awkward angles beneath his ears. He touches it absently, like it doesn’t belong to him.

His eyes are worse. Red at the rims. Slightly sunken. He’d seen these eyes once before, a few days ago, in the mirror at the Front Man’s quarters. They’d looked tired then. Now they look hollow.

He shifts slightly. The collar of the tracksuit droops, and for a second he glimpses the line of his collarbone. There’s a purple bloom of bruising along the side of his neck, spreading faintly to the shoulder. He doesn’t remember when that happened.

He presses his palm to the mirror. Just to see. It leaves a faint print on the glass. Damp. Real.

Then looks away.

There’s a small stool tucked beside the wall. Next to it, there is a bench. And folded with almost reverent care, are two sets of clothing. Both white.

His eyes move on, land on the final detail.

A shower cabinet is tucked into the far corner, framed by polished steel. Sleek, rectangular, encased in fogged glass that glimmers slightly beneath the light. The glass is clean. Not a smudge, not a single drip. Like no one’s ever used it. Like it was waiting just for him.

Gi-hun’s legs move before his mind does.

He steps toward it slowly, then stops.

Instinct tells him to check behind him - surely the Guard is there. Surely he’s waiting to bark orders, strip him down, drag him through another humiliation.

But when he turns, blinking - nothing.

No Guard. No looming threat.

He shifts quietly toward the partition wall and tests the angle, careful not to be obvious about it. The Triangle is still there, posted near the doorway like a mute, pink statue. But he’s on the other side of the divider. Too far to see inside.

Gi-hun looks again. From this side, the mirror is hidden. So is the sink. The clothes. The shower.

The Guard can hear, probably. But otherwise?

Privacy.

He blinks.

For a second, he doesn’t move. He just breathes, shallow, uncertain.

After the firehose, after being stripped and displayed and violated in the name of “cleaning,” this - this quiet - feels like a trap.

And maybe it is. Maybe this is part of it.

The conditioning. The seduction.

This is how the Front Man works. Not with force. He unravels in whispers.

A bowl of rice. A warm room. A leather chair waiting beside his own. The hand, ungloved, resting against his. Fingers that did not grab - but claimed.

“Fate brought you here. To this room. To me. Don’t be afraid.”

The voice was soft, sliding into his bloodstream like something holy. It touched where nothing else had touched in weeks - softness offered like sin.

And now, this.

Gi-hun strips in silence.

He folds the old tracksuit out of habit, even though the fabric reeks of sweat and stale adrenaline. He sets it carefully on the bench, beside the two clean stacks of white.

He turns the knob. The water roars to life.

It is warm. 

The water hits his spine first, and he flinches - not from pain, but from the unbearable softness of it. It slides over his skin like silk. Like memory.

The shelf is too well-stocked. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Soap, wrapped and new. Shampoo. Conditioner. All white-labeled. Unbranded. Purity weaponized.

He thought of everything. Of course he did.

The Front Man doesn’t just control the pain - he controls the comfort. He chooses when Gi-hun suffers, and when he is allowed to feel human again. And it is always, always calculated.

He lets the water run for a long time. Long enough that the tiles beneath his feet turn slick, the air thick with vapor. He reaches for the soap, unwraps it with careful fingers, and begins.

His hands glide over the sharp ridges of his ribs, the slope of his collarbone, the curve of his neck. His body hums with pain, but it’s muted now, buried beneath the heat, beneath the rhythm of fingers and water. His palms move to his face, and the soap stings where his lip is split. He leans into it anyway.

He lets the shampoo lather in his hair, thick and white. Lets it drip down his spine, over the cuts and welts, down his legs.

Then, he takes the toothbrush, The paste burns, sharp and electric. His mouth aches as he scrapes away the residue. He opens wide, jaw trembling, tongue heavy. He can taste metal. Blood.

And still, it feels good.

And that’s what terrifies him most. Because he knows what this is.

This is the Front Man’s touch without the hand.

This is the voice in his ear without the mask.

This is the warmth, the chair - reimagined as hot water and soap.

And Gi-hun, traitor that he is, is letting it happen.

He thinks of the man he was when he re-entered the Games. The fire in his chest. The fury in his veins. The impossible promise he made to himself, that he would protect the Players. That he would fight for them. That he would never become like the ones who ran this place.

But here he is. Stepping under the water. Letting it baptize him. Letting it soothe him.

Becoming clean.

Becoming… something else.

Ga-yeong’s voice from his dream surfaces - faint, too clear. “You’re still you, Appa. Even if they try to take that from you.”

But what if they didn’t take it? What if he already gave it away?

What if the worst thing isn’t being broken - but being willing?

His lips move before he knows what they’re saying. “I’m still me,” he whispers, but it sounds like someone else is speaking. A man behind a two-way mirror. A ghost in the steam.

The water muffles his words. Drowns them.

“I’m still me,” he says it again. Louder. Like the words might root themselves in his throat, crawl down into his chest, latch onto something that still means ‘Gi-hun’.

“I’m still me. Still me.”

Still. Him.

But even that starts to feel like a joke.

Because what kind of man stands in a room built by his captor, lets warm water caress his skin, while somewhere below Jun-hee might be screaming, might be bleeding out - or worse, might already be quiet.

A bad one. That’s what kind.

He remembers the Front Man’s voice, low and precise:

“You’ve already given me everything I need.”

And maybe… maybe he had.

Maybe the Front Man didn’t build a new Gi-hun - maybe he just peeled away everything that got in the way of the real one. The thing that had always been there. Maybe this was never about transformation at all. Maybe it was about revelation.

He thinks about all the other times he did this - stood under water pretending it was transformation. Pretending the filth washed away with the sweat.

Showers after shouting matches with his ex-wife. After ignoring Ga-yeong’s tears. After spending money he didn’t have.

Slicking his hair back for job interviews he never wanted. Practicing smiles in the mirror he never believed.

Cleansing the surface of a rot he never had the courage to name.

Rituals of a man performing decency. Washing off the guilt like it would make him good.

And now? Now it feels honest.

Because here - beneath the steam and silence, beneath the white tiles and the soft hum of a drain pulling every drop of himself downward - there’s no need to pretend anymore.

And isn’t that the most terrifying idea of all?

That beneath the fight, beneath the desperate flicker of righteousness, this was what remained. The part of him that craved approval more than justice, comfort more than truth. Obedience, dressed up as virtue.

White clings to him even now, even naked, even wet. It’s the color that haunts his skin like a bruise that never quite fade. He wears it without wearing it, stitched into the softest, most desperate parts of him.

Not redemption or purity. But performance. Submission.

Not a lamb led to slaughter, not anymore - no. That image’s too soft now. Too innocent.

He sees something else.

A bride at the altar.

Cleaned. Offered. Made presentable for the hand that might take his. For the voice that might say his name and mean forever when it says it.

The thought coils through him without permission, unspooling something hot and ugly low in his belly. His groin stirs – barely - but it’s enough. Enough to make him flinch.

He grits his teeth. No. No.

He shifts under the water, jaw clenched, shame spreading faster than the steam. It’s nothing. It’s stress. It’s adrenaline. It’s nothing. He tells himself it’s nothing. That his body doesn't get a say.

But it lingers. That flicker. That sick, traitorous flicker of want, of being chosen. Of standing side by side. Equal in silence. Two masks. One voice in his ear. A hand on his back - firm, possessive.

He chokes it down, crushes the thought with both hands against the tile. Shame heats his face hotter than the water ever could.

He’s not the hero. He’s not the martyr. He’s not the man who wins in the end.

He's the man who let himself be comforted by the enemy. Who let the water run hot while others scream below.

Gi-hun turns off the water with a slow twist of the wrist and leaves the shower slowly, as if stepping into something final. The water still clings to his skin, heavy, reluctant to let him go.

The towel is soft. It clings to his waist in folds, damp where it touches his back. He dries himself on autopilot, jaw clenched, every movement mechanical. Not because he’s calm, but because he’s not.

Because if he lets himself feel anything, the whole thing will come apart.

Then his eyes fall to the bench.

The two stacks of clothes.

He’d noticed them earlier, absentmindedly, in that fogged and shaking state that doesn’t register threat until it’s already too late. But now - now that his body is scrubbed clean and his skin feels newly grown - he sees them differently.

He reaches for the one on the left, mechanically. It’s identical to what he was wearing before. Same thin fabric, same loose fit. Stark white again. The number 456 printed in bold black, like a tattoo you never get to choose. No different. Just... refreshed. Sanitized. A fresh canvas for the next round of damage.

Then he turns to the second stack.

At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s touching. The fabric is heavier. Structured. He lifts it from the bench, unfolding it piece by piece, and the shape emerges before he’s ready to see it.

A long coat. Pale. High-collared. Sleek. Tailored with precision, like it was cut not just for a man, but for an idea of one. The shoulders are sharp, the hem clean. The seams so straight they feel surgical. There’s a white undershirt folded beneath it. White pants. Matching gloves. The boots are perfectly polished, ankle-high, expressionless. The whole thing is quiet and pristine and exact - a uniform designed to make you disappear into it.

He recognizes it instantly.

It’s the Front Man’s uniform. But in white.

Purified. Presented. Prepared.

And for one long, unbearable second, he just stares.

Then his knees nearly give.

It doesn’t hit all at once - it creeps in. First, the cold rising up his spine. Then the breath he realizes he’s been holding. Then the understanding that the cut of this coat matches his body perfectly. The gloves look like they were measured against his hands. The fabric smells new, untouched. Waiting.

This was made for him.

For him.

No, no, no. No.

He doesn’t think. He just grabs the coat, hands shaking as he clutches the thick fabric, heavy and stiff.

He throws it. It slaps the tile with a heavy, unnatural sound - but then there’s another sound beneath it. A sharp clatter. Something solid. 

Metal.

Something rolls across the floor. Once. Twice. Then stops. Face-up.

White. Faceted. Familiar.

The mask.

It had been tucked inside the coat, nestled into it like a gift. Hidden in the lining like a punchline waiting for the laugh. Blank-eyed and patient. Like it knew it would be found.

Gi-hun can’t breathe.

His stomach lurches.

It’s not just clothing. It’s not a uniform. It’s a question. It’s the chair, the meal, the voice in his ear - it’s the fucking hand reaching for his. Not a shove, not a cage. A quiet invitation.

And maybe that’s worse.

Maybe it was never about forcing him into a role.

Maybe it was about seducing him into thinking he wanted it.

His towel slips lower on his hips, but he doesn’t notice. His hands are gripping the coat again, crumpling the fabric in shaking fists. The coat won’t tear. He yanks harder. It doesn’t matter. The stitching holds.

He can hear something building in his chest. The scream breaks out of him so suddenly it feels like vomiting.

“Are you-” His voice shatters. “You son of a-”

The coat slams to the ground again. He kicks it. Again. Again. Harder each time, but it doesn’t react or bend. It just waits. Everything always waits.

“FUCK YOU!” he howls, louder than the walls should allow.

He grabs the boots - throws one, then the other. The gloves follow. Then the coat. The undershirt. The pants. A storm of white crashing against white.

“FUCK YOU, YOU SICK, TWISTED PIECE OF SHIT! YOU THINK THIS IS CONTROL?!”

Gi-hun keeps screaming, but not words anymore. Just noise. Just the sound of something inside him being hollowed out and flung against the walls.

When he kicks the mask, it bounces off the wall and lands face-up, staring at him.

He presses his hands to his face and laughs - high and wild and raw, like something trying to claw its way out of his throat. It doesn’t sound like him. It doesn’t sound like anyone. It’s not exactly a laugh - it’s what happens when a body can’t decide whether to scream or shatter.

He wants to smash the mask with his heel.

He wants to hold it to his face and breathe through it.

He wants to throw up.

He wants to kiss it.

He wants to scream until his lungs collapse.

He wants to wear it like a crown.

He wants to never touch it again.

He wants it in his hands.

He wants to be seen.

He wants to disappear.

He wants to run.

He wants to kneel.

The mask watches. White. Faceted. Hollow.

A veil made of glass. A face that isn't a face at all - but maybe, if he pressed it to his own, it would finally feel like one.

He laughs harder. Hands still over his face. Nails digging into his cheeks like he’s trying to hold himself in. The sound spills out of him in sharp, broken pieces, wet and breathless.

It’s not funny.

It’s so funny.

Because it was never just a mask. It’s a vow. A promise. A yes.

And it’s already halfway on.

He wants to put it on.

He wants to put it on.

He wants to put it-

No.

No.

He drops to his knees, breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. His fingers twitch, reaching toward the mask like they're moving on their own. But he stops himself.

Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.

The clothes are still scattered like bones across the tile. Pale limbs in a crime scene. He doesn't dare touch them again. He doesn’t even let his eyes fall on the corner where the mask waits, still watching him.

He can’t look. Because if he looks again, there is no going back.

So he crawls back to himself in pieces.

Breathing. Counting. Control.

One arm pushes him upright. Then another. The floor feels far away. His body isn’t his body. His mind is still screaming somewhere in the background, but he tunes it out. He’s good at that. Has always been good at that.

He reaches for the tracksuit.

The other set of clothes. The safe one. As if such a thing exists here.

He dresses like a man burying the evidence. He doesn’t even realize how fast he moves, just that he won’t look at the other clothes. Not again. Not even for a second.

The jacket zips. The pants swish. The synthetic fabric is still warm from the room.

He’s fully dressed before he even understands he’s moving.

He walks to the partition. The Triangle Guard is still there - exactly where he was before, still and waiting, as if nothing happened. As if he hadn’t heard the screaming. The curses. The hysterical laughter. As if Gi-hun hadn’t just fallen apart on the other side of the wall.

Gi-hun stands there for a moment, pulse throbbing. 

“I’m… done.”

It comes out hoarse, quiet. More like a confession than a statement. The kind of thing you say after a breakdown. 

He feels the shame immediately, thick and hot, pouring over his shoulders.

He doesn’t dare look at him.

But the Guard speaks.

“No,” he says flatly. “You’re not done yet.”

Gi-hun’s stomach turns. He’s too tired to ask. Too empty to flinch.

The Guard gestures back toward the wall.

“Sit. Wait.”

He doesn’t ask what for.

He turns without a word, walks back to the bench, and sits - every step echoing with that scream that never really stopped.

His legs fold. His hands rest in his lap.

He doesn’t look at the mask. But he knows it’s still watching him.

Gi-hun lowers his gaze to the floor instead. Watches a droplet of water slide down his finger, roll onto the tile, disappear.

Minutes pass. Gi-hun thinks, maybe, if he holds still long enough, he’ll dissolve into the tile. Just bones and steam. Just another piece of the room.

He focuses on his breathing. In. Out. Slow. Slow.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s sitting calmly. He’s dressed. Presentable. The tracksuit fits. He made the right choice. He didn’t touch the mask.

He didn’t say yes.

But he keeps hearing himself laugh. That awful sound, replaying like a cracked cassette. And the mask - God, the mask, it’s still there. He can feel it grinning behind him.

He thinks about standing up. About kicking it again. About apologizing to it.

He does none of those things.

Instead, he straightens his spine. Tries to look composed.

He crosses and uncrosses his arms.

Rubs the back of his neck.

Pulls his knees up, then lowers them again.

Rearranges himself like a man trying to remember what people look like when they’re calm.

He shudders. Tells himself it’s just the room cooling.

And then-

The door. Opening.

The sound is so soft, he almost doesn’t hear it. 

He hears rubber-soled footsteps, slow and steady.

The Triangle Guard doesn’t announce anything. Doesn’t say a word. Just lets the new one walk in.

Gi-hun doesn’t lift his head at first. He waits. Watches the black shoes approach, one step at a time, careful as clockwork. His breath catches.

It’s him.

He knows it like he knows the pull of gravity. The same way animals sense earthquakes. The way trees lean into the wind before the storm arrives. He doesn’t have proof. He doesn’t need it. Beneath thought, beneath language, there is only certainty: it's his Circle Guard.

His.

Gi-hun stares. His vision narrows until it’s just the figure moving across the space - controlled, casual, clean. Carrying a tray made of brushed steel, the edges curved and elegant like everything else in this fucking place.

Shaving cream, in a white ceramic pot. A straight razor, old-fashioned and gleaming, folded into a handle of matte black. A towel - white, of course - creased down the center like it’s never been touched by a real hand. The kind of arrangement you’d find in a hotel suite. Or a morgue.

For a heartbeat, Gi-hun can’t speak. Then words tumble out, strained, fractured:

“Did they hurt you?”

The Guard stops just for a moment, just enough to notice. But says nothing. Of course he says nothing.

Gi-hun pushes himself upright a bit more. Something inside him is unraveling fast, like thread yanked too roughly.

“Did they hurt you?” he repeats, sharper this time, eyes tracking every small movement, searching for a twitch, a tremor. “Say something. Christ, just-”

His breath catches harshly in his chest. He grits his teeth, helplessly angry at his own panic. "You're not limping," he mutters. "That's-that's good. I thought maybe, after the food, after the fucking tuna can-"

The Guard carefully sets the tray on the washbasin, movements impossibly steady. Gi-hun bites his tongue. Frustration bleeds into a bitter laugh, ugly and fractured as shattered glass.

“I mean, did your buddy report you yet?” he asks, voice dripping acid. “Maybe he’s waiting. Saving it for dessert.”

No answer.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he mutters. “I should’ve known better. Didn’t think they’d find it. Didn’t think I’d… fuck.”

He wipes a hand across his mouth, even though there’s nothing there. The shame coats his tongue like oil.

“God. Look at me,” he breathes, half-laughing, half-choking. “Apologizing to one of you.”

He exhales sharply, disgusted at himself. The silence in the room echoes louder, a cruel answer in its own right.

He doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to feel relief when he sees no blood on that pristine uniform, no hesitation in the Guard’s careful, precise steps. But he does feel it - relief, sharp and humiliating.

The Guard doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even glance at him. Instead, he looks at the floor.

At the pile of white. The coat. The gloves. The boots. The mask.

The mask.

He stares for a second too long.

And then turns back to his task.

Like he already expected it. Like it’s nothing new. Like Gi-hun’s complete unraveling was part of the fucking script.

“What’s the job they gave you this time?” Gi-hun snorts. “First I get hosed down like a wild animal, and now this? Shaving duty?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus. What’s next? Manicure day? I bet your boss already picked the nail color. Something subtle, right? White on white on white. You know, to match the décor.”

The Guard says nothing. Just keeps lining up the items on the sink.

Gi-hun’s voice drops. 

“Oh. But I get it now. I get it.”

His jaw twitches. His mouth curls into something that’s not a smile.

“That fucker doesn’t trust me with a blade. Afraid I’ll just slit my throat and mess up his show.”

He gestures wildly toward the basin, then lets his hand drop.

“So instead, he sends you.”

He spits the word like it burns.

You.

The one he wouldn’t fight.

The one he wouldn’t try to hurt.

The one they knew he’d let close.

He laughs, low, unhinged.

“That’s the game, isn’t it? Send the one I’m soft for. The one I have dreams about. The one I-”

He stops. Bites down hard on the rest. He doesn’t say it. He can’t.

The Circle Guard moves - wordless, fluid - and Gi-hun watches as he drags the stool from its place near the wall and positions it in front of the mirror. He doesn’t speak or gesture. But the intent is clear.

Gi-hun walks forward like he’s sleepwalking. Each step too light, like he’s afraid the ground will give out.

He sits.

The stool is just tall enough that his knees angle slightly up. His feet rest flat. His hands dangle loosely at his sides.

The Guard reaches for the white towel. Gi-hun flinches instinctively, but the hands never pause or threaten. Instead, they settle it with deliberate gentleness, folding the cloth against his shoulders, tucking it around his collar. Like he matters. Like his comfort matters.

Gi-hun swallows.

Then, he sees them clearly – the gloved hands.

But these aren’t the gloves he’s used to. Not the thick, gleaming black armor the Guards wear, built for intimidation, for executions, for cold violence and bloody spectacle.

No. These are different. Thin. Flexible. Matte black. They flex over the knuckles like skin. Hug the joints like breath. They’re made for precision. For movement. For…touch.

And for a horrifying, breathless second, Gi-hun thinks - those are his hands. Not the Guard’s.

The boy’s.

He freezes, the air jammed halfway down his throat.

He knows those hands. Knows the careful movements. The quiet confidence. The meticulous way the fingers brush the towel, adjusting every fold until it’s perfect.

A memory comes like a punch to the chest.

Those hands, straightening papers. Lining pencils in a perfect row. Those same damn hands, slipping a library book from a shelf, touching the spine reverently. Like books had souls. Like everything could break if he didn’t touch it exactly right.

Hands carefully buttoning a uniform jacket, smoothing the fabric down, double-checking the knot in his tie. Hands brushing crumbs from his desk - soft, fastidious flicks.

His throat tightens again.

The Circle Guard turns to him now, stepping closer, and Gi-hun can feel the air moving differently between them.

“Are you even real?” Gi-hun rasps, eyes flickering to the black mask, the unreadable face behind it. He swallows again. “Why don’t you say anything? Please. Just…say something.”

Silence.

Always silence.

“I hate this,” he whispers, more to himself than anything. “I hate you.”

A pause. His voice cracks.

“I hate that I care. I hate that I want you to be him.”

The Circle Guard’s head tips slightly. Not mockingly. Just… aware. Like maybe the mask is listening.

Gi-hun’s eyes blur from exhaustion, madness pressing in, heavy and thick, like his skull has begun to leak from the inside out.

The Guard reaches for the shaving cream, twists the lid off slowly, deliberately. Gi-hun watches - can’t look away - as one gloved finger dips inside, scooping a small dollop onto the fingertips, spreading it slowly onto his palm, working it into a careful lather.

The smell of it hits Gi-hun first. Clean. Familiar. Like something from the past. From before all this.

He feels ill.

"This reminds me of something," Gi-hun whispers suddenly, voice husky. Unstable. "You-he-"

The Guard pauses, foam-covered fingers hovering an inch from Gi-hun’s face. Waiting. Listening.

“I remember,” Gi-hun says softly, feeling untethered now, his voice dipping into delirium, “he cut my hair once.”

The cream touches his skin - warm, soft, wrong. Gentle circles over his jaw, his cheeks. He can’t move. Can’t escape the quiet precision. He’s frozen, trapped by softness, held captive by care.

“I was ten. He was nine. Asked him to cut my hair. Told him I trusted him.” A broken laugh shivers out of him, small, jagged. “That it would save me a trip to the barber. He took it so seriously.”

The fingers pause briefly. A hesitation, so slight Gi-hun might've imagined it.

Gi-hun's voice softens, cracks open like something rotten.

“He measured the bangs with a ruler. A ruler, can you imagine? Had this... ‘design’ he wanted. Some bullshit he drew on paper first. Always so godamn careful.”

The cream spreads across his upper lip, slow and cautious. Gi-hun stares straight ahead, eyes glazed, unblinking.

“I looked terrible,” he says. “Jagged chunks. One side was longer than the other. There was this weird… spiral gap in the back.” He mimics it with his hands, laughing again. “My mom almost fainted when she saw it. Said I looked like I got into a fight with a lawnmower.”

His smile flickers, fades.

“He cried, you know? Was so mad at himself. Said he ruined my face. That everyone at school would laugh at me.”

Gi-hun exhales.

“And yeah… they did. I mean, God. They howled. I had that hair for a whole week. Even the teacher made jokes.”

He pauses.

“But I told him it was cool. Said I liked it. That it was ‘punk.’ That everyone else was just jealous.” A ghost of a grin tugs at his lip. “Kept it like that the whole week. Didn’t fix it. Just… kept it.”

He pauses, breath quick, shallow.

“And the funny thing is… I really did think it was cool. Not the hair. But what he did. The way he took it seriously. Like doing a good job on my dumb little haircut mattered.”

The cream is finished now. The Guard turns slowly, picks up the razor, folding it open carefully, the steel glinting like a sliver of ice.

“That was the thing about him,” Gi-hun murmurs, voice turning soft and unsteady, like he’s speaking in a church. “He was always so careful. Always so goddamn precise. Like he could shape the whole world if he just focused hard enough.”

The Circle doesn’t move this time.

But he’s listening.

Gi-hun knows it. Feels it.

“I envied that.” Gi-hun whispers, heart thumping wildly in his throat, voice breaking under memory’s weight. “That was always his thing, wasn't it? Careful. Quiet. Perfect.”

The razor blade hovers at his jawline, trembling almost imperceptibly.

“Jesus,” Gi-hun says hoarsely. “Even now. Even here. You're still careful. Always careful.”

Silence.

The blade touches his skin lightly just below the ear and drags down, slow, controlled. A thin line of skin revealed beneath. 

“You remember that, don’t you?” Gi-hun whispers suddenly, desperately. Voice shaking with need, fear, delusion bleeding through. “You remember-”

He freezes.

The blade pauses mid-stroke.

"Oh my God," Gi-hun murmurs, horrified. "I'm losing it. I'm fucking gone."

He can feel the Guard’s gaze through the mask. 

“Of course you don’t remember,” Gi-hun says bitterly, quickly covering his slip, laughter bubbling up like acid. “Why would you? You weren’t there. You aren’t him.”

The blade moves again. Smooth, slow, terrifyingly gentle against his cheekbone. Gi-hun holds his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

“But he-” Gi-hun rasps, voice thin. "He would remember.”

The Guard’s fingers tense, faintly, at Gi-hun’s words. The pressure on Gi-hun’s chin increases slightly - just enough to notice. Like he’s holding something back.

“I can't-” Gi-hun whispers frantically, words spilling out broken, rapid. "I can't look at your hands and not see his. Can't feel your fingers on my face without remembering. Can't-can’t fucking breathe without-"

The blade stops again, the room plunging into absolute stillness.

Gi-hun’s breathing turns ragged, fast. He feels like he’s slipping off a cliff edge, hands scrambling uselessly for something to hold onto.

"Please," he whispers, the word wrenching itself painfully from his chest. "Please just say something. Tell me you remember. Tell me I'm not crazy. Tell me-"

Silence.

The Guard’s thumb strokes briefly - just once - against Gi-hun’s jawline. A tiny, involuntary reassurance. And Gi-hun feels it like an electric shock through every nerve.

"God," he whispers shakily, voice dissolving completely. "You're killing me. You're fucking killing me."

Silence.

The blade lifts again.

Gi-hun closes his eyes again, just for a moment - just long enough to remember how to breathe, just enough to remind himself how it felt to have air fill lungs that weren’t already drowning.

“It wasn’t only the haircut,” he murmurs, voice worn thin, rough at the edges. “He did everything. Everything I asked.”

The Guard moves slowly. The rhythm of shaving starts once more, steady, delicate, methodical. Gi-hun barely feels it, caught in memory, in the phantom brush of hands he thinks he recognizes.

“Like this one time. You-you remember,” Gi-hun breathes, the words coming out sticky, half-formed, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or scream. “I was thirteen, maybe fourteen. There was this girl I liked. It was just a dumb crush. She had these braces and used to doodle ghosts in the margins of her notebook. Can't even remember her name. Funny, isn't it? How something that seemed so important back then... and now..."

He falters.

"I told you - him, not you, shit-”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake himself loose. He starts again.

“I told him about it. Said I wanted to write her a letter. Y’know… romantic. Impressive. But I didn’t know what to say. I was crap at words. Always have been.”

The Circle Guard gently wipes the razor clean on the towel. 

“So I asked him to help me. Just a little help, right? Thought he’d throw a few lines my way, give me a joke or two to make her laugh. But no.”

The cream is cold against his neck again. The Guard spreads it carefully, evenly, two fingers moving in circles. Gentle pressure. A surgeon’s touch.

“He made me sit there and think. Asked me what I liked about her. What made her laugh. What kind of music she listened to.” Gi-hun chuckles, hollow. “I didn’t even know those things about her.”

The next breath comes shaky, from somewhere deeper now.

“And then he… he stayed up all night writing it. Not just one draft - three. He said it needed polish. Said she deserved better than crumpled notebook paper.”

The Guard’s fingers still, just a second. Thumb brushing the corner of the blade. An involuntary twitch.

“I took the letter to school the next day,” Gi-hun says, voice barely above a whisper now. “Told myself I’d give it to her after lunch. But it was gone. Couldn’t find it. Checked my bag, my desk, everything. Thought maybe I dropped it.”

A small breath of a laugh.

“Felt like shit about it, honestly. Thought I’d lost something… I didn’t even write.”

The Guard pauses again, razor hovering just below Gi-hun’s ear. Something in the air changes - so slight it might just be Gi-hun imagining things. Because he’s imagining a lot of things these days, isn’t he?

Gi-hun’s throat tightens, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the blade's gentle, steady path.

“Months later,” he whispers, eyes fluttering open now, fixed on the stark blankness of the Guard’s mask, “It was exam week. Needed help studying because I never paid attention. I never fucking learned. Always relied on him to explain, to understand things for me.”

Gi-hun’s eyes darken slightly, pain deepening into self-loathing.

“Anyway, I went to his place. Asked for help like I always did. And he said yes. Like he always did.”

He blinks too many times in a row.

“I was looking for…fuck, I don’t know…a pencil? An eraser? Some stupid little thing. I opened his drawer, not thinking, not caring…and I saw it. The letter. Folded so neatly, tucked in the corner like he’d hidden it from himself.”

The Circle Guard shifts, a small tension gathering in the tight line of his shoulders. So slight. Almost nothing. 

“I never asked him why. Never told him I found it. Never said a word.”

His voice breaks on the last word, brittle as dry leaves underfoot. He tilts his head slightly, letting the blade slide carefully down his cheek, strangely soothing despite the ache in his chest.

“Maybe…maybe he liked her too. Maybe he didn’t want me giving it to her, didn’t want me embarrassing myself - or embarrassing him. Maybe-”

But he stops. Something in the air has shifted again. The Guard’s hand pauses, gloved fingers trembling ever-so-slightly against his jaw. Gi-hun sees the subtle twitch, feels it like an electric jolt.

“You tell me,” Gi-hun rasps suddenly, eyes wide and wild, flicking open desperately, staring straight into the mask’s blank face. “Tell me why you did that. Why would you do something like that and never tell me?”

His voice shakes. The mistake hangs between them, bitter, tangled in confusion and accusation and a grief he doesn’t fully understand. Doesn’t want to understand.

“No,” Gi-hun mutters instantly, eyes squeezing shut again, shaking his head minutely under the gentle hold of the gloved hand. “No, fuck – sorry - I meant him. Him. I know it’s not you. I’m not… I’m not…”

The Guard says nothing. 

Gi-hun breathes out raggedly, heart hammering, reality thinning around him like fabric about to tear.

“Why did he keep it? Why spend hours writing something just to hide it away?”

He trails off, confusion bleeding into the cracks of every sentence. The shaving cream is wiped gently from his jaw, the Guard’s fingers carefully angling his chin upward once more. The blade returns, whispering carefully beneath the skin, the faint scrape almost tender.

Gi-hun swallows roughly, breath hitching again.

“I never told him,” he repeats, voice trembling softly now. “I never asked. Maybe I was scared of what he’d say. Or maybe…maybe I was scared he’d never tell me. That he’d just look at me, quiet, careful, like he always did. Like he could hold the whole goddamn world in his eyes and never let me see it.”

The Circle Guard’s hand pauses again.

Gi-hun stares, searching for something in the impassive mask before him. But nothing comes. Nothing ever comes.

Only silence. Only the faint tremor in the careful fingers against his skin, betraying something neither of them can name aloud.

“I hate that I keep hoping you’ll speak,” Gi-hun whispers finally. “That you’ll tell me what the hell he was thinking, because I’ve been trying for years, and I still don’t fucking understand.”

He breathes in, rasping, ragged, desperate. The razor resumes its slow, careful path, gloved fingers tightening minutely against his jaw.

“You remember the night before you - no, he - left for university?” Gi-hun asks, too softly.

The Circle Guard doesn’t answer.

Gi-hun keeps going, because stopping now would mean listening to the silence. And the silence will kill him faster than any blade.

“I threw this stupid little party. Cheap soda. Those triangle kimbap from the corner store. I made this godawful sign - ‘Ssangmun-dong's Pride’ - with a glitter pen I stole from the girl I was dating at the time.” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “It looked like shit.”

A pause. A breath.

“I thought you’d be excited,” Gi-hun’s voice is unraveling now, threads slipping loose.  “You were getting out. You had the golden fucking ticket. But after the party, it was just us, and you sat on the edge of my bed, like someone told you the train already left and you missed it.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes for a beat.

“I-I said something stupid. Like always. I said, ‘You’ll forget all about me once you’re surrounded by smart people.’”

His voice cracks down the middle. “Because I thought it was a joke. That’s how we did things. I said dumb shit. You pretended to be annoyed. That was how we were.”

He drags in a breath. “But you didn’t laugh. You just looked at me. And you said…”

The words hover.

“‘I could never forget you.’”

The Circle Guard is frozen now. Razor midair. Breathing like he forgot how.

Gi-hun doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. But it doesn’t matter.

“Then you said…” Gi-hun’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, and when they open again, they are glassy and wrecked. “You said, ‘Sometimes I wish you could see yourself the way I do.’”

His laugh this time is uglier. 

“I thought you were calling me pathetic. I thought you meant, ‘Get your shit together, Gi-hun. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ So I told you to toughen up. That college would eat you alive if you didn’t stop being such a sap.”

A pause. His throat works around something that refuses to be swallowed.

“But you just… looked at me. Like you were gonna say something else. Like you were waiting for me to notice.”

Gi-hun’s eyes snap up.

They lock on the Circle Guard.

And in that breath, the air shatters.

“What were you gonna say?” Gi-hun demands. His voice is low, hoarse, shaking. “Huh? What were you going to say, you - no, he - fuck, you know what I mean.”

The blade hasn’t moved. The Guard hasn’t moved.

But the mask is watching. Harder now. Like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to.

“Tell me,” Gi-hun says, voice unraveling into something desperate. “Tell me what you were gonna say. That you felt bad for me? That you’d stay? That if I asked, you wouldn’t go?”

His voice cracks.

“Because I would’ve. I would’ve asked. If I’d known - if I hadn’t been such a fucking coward-”

His hands are fisting on his knees.

“I would’ve asked you to stay.”

The Circle Guard is frozen.

And then, in a fast, practiced gesture, he looks away.

Like he was caught.

He resumes the shave with perfect, mechanical precision. A soldier. A machine. A mask.

But Gi-hun is shaking.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless, eyes wild with grief and realization. “I remember now. That night - I dismissed it, didn’t I? Whatever you were about to say - I just laughed and told you we’d still be friends when we were old and wrinkled. Friends. God, I’m an idiot.”

His mouth twists.

“I said that. And you… you just nodded. Didn’t say a thing. Of course you didn’t.”

He swallows hard, eyes wet and distant, voice softening dangerously.

“And now look at us. One of us is dead, and the other is stuck here talking to some bastard in a mask.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, jaw clenched, tears rising again.

The Guard doesn’t flinch. But he starts to move faster. The blade sweeps across Gi-hun’s jaw with surgical efficiency. Like he’s trying to finish. Get it over with. Run without running.

Gi-hun doesn’t stop.

“I used to visit you, you know? At university. I’d take the bus all the way there, even when I barely had cash for the return trip. Showed up with those stupid plastic bags full of snacks and cigarettes, like I was doing you some favor.” 

The Circle Guard’s hands are stiff now, almost too rigid.

“You changed.”

Gi-hun’s voice is quieter.

“You got colder. Started hanging out with… them. Guys with glasses and money and opinions. You stopped talking like someone from Ssangmun. Like you forgot where you came from. Like you forgot me.”

The razor sweeps down. Quick. Clean. Mechanical.

“I wasn’t useful anymore, was I? Just some idiot hyung you outgrew.”

He laughs, bitter and cracked.

“Your new friends made fun of me, by the way. You thought I didn’t notice. But I did. Every time they smirked when I spoke. Every look. Every fake smile.”

Gi-hun swallows hard.

“But I kept coming back. Even when you stopped inviting me. Even when you started pretending you didn’t have time. Like I was a stray dog that wouldn’t stop showing up at the door.”

He shakes his head, laughs through his teeth.

“And I was still proud of you.” A pause. A breath. A break in his voice. “God, I was so proud of you.”

He closes his eyes.

“Your mom still has that photo, you know. The one I took - her and you at graduation. She framed it. It’s on the wall in her new shop. She says it brings good luck.”

His voice shatters.

“I wish I could tell her the truth.”

The Guard slows.

“I wish I could tell her that her son died like a dog in the dirt. Lying in the sand with his blood in his mouth. Not even a proper goodbye. Just... red.”

He breathes like he’s drowning.

“There was so much blood, and you still looked at me like…fuck!” He swallows, hard. “And I just stood there and watched you die.”

Silence.

The blade lifts. The final stroke. The towel moves across his skin, wiping away the last of the foam.

“Say something.” His voice breaks into a desperate whisper. “Please, just say something. Call me an idiot, call me pathetic - anything. Just… just tell me you hear me. Please.”

The Guard gently but firmly pulls free. Steps back, body tense.

Gi-hun lets out a sound like a sob, bitter and raw, head hanging forward in shame. Tears blur his vision, hot and humiliating. He feels utterly stripped, utterly pathetic, exposed beneath the careful, indifferent gaze of that damned black mask.

“You remember her, right? Your mom - she’s still waiting for you. Every fucking day she sits behind that counter, glancing up whenever someone comes in, thinking you'll walk in. How the fuck do I tell her you’re never coming back?”

He lifts his head, eyes wild, desperate, fixed directly onto the mask.

“How do I tell her it’s my fault? How do I-“

He freezes mid-sentence, realizing the Guard isn’t even listening anymore. He’s turned away, carefully packing away the razor, the towel, every small reminder of the intimacy they'd just shared - like none of it had happened. Like Gi-hun was nothing more than another task checked off some fucking list.

Panic flares sharp in Gi-hun’s chest, clawing desperately at his throat.

No. No, no, no, he can’t leave yet. He can't go silent again. Not now, not after this.

“Wait, don’t!” Gi-hun surges forward blindly, tears spilling freely now, and his fingers close tight around the Guard’s wrist. The fabric beneath his hand feels coarse, warm. Alive.

The Guard stands utterly still, caught. Gi-hun can feel the pulse beneath his glove - quick, frantic.

Gi-hun holds his breath. Seconds stretch out, unending, torturous.

“Don’t go,” Gi-hun whispers, voice breaking again. It's barely more than a sob. He doesn't know why he says it, doesn't even know what it means - just that losing this contact, losing this warmth, this fragile connection, feels unbearable.

They stand frozen in place, silence crackling with tension, each second heavier than the last.

Slowly, achingly slowly, Gi-hun lifts his gaze, staring at the smooth, blank mask with a desperation he's never allowed himself before. His eyes trace the impassive Circle, the symbol he’s learned to associate with silence, obedience, and distance. 

“I need to see you,” Gi-hun breathes, trembling so violently he's not sure how he's still standing. “I-I’m fucking losing it, you hear me? Please. Just once. Let me look at you.”

His other hand rises, shaking as it hovers just inches from the mask. He's begging without words now, too afraid that speaking louder might shatter this moment completely. Slowly, deliberately, his fingertips brush the edge of the mask, tracing it like it's something sacred. Gi-hun chokes back another sob, thumb trembling over smooth plastic.

For a moment, he just holds it there, his palm resting softly, reverently, on the mask.

Then, slowly, carefully, he moves. His fingertips slide upward, hesitant, reaching for the strap, daring to push for something real human, something he could touch without the cold barrier of duty and violence.

And that’s when he feels it - the Guard’s hand moving, fingers sliding upward, covering his own with a tenderness so unexpected that Gi-hun nearly cries out.

Their fingers lace softly together. Not rough or forceful. Just warm. Achingly gentle. Gi-hun’s eyes widen with shock and disbelief and something dangerously close to relief.

The Guard's thumb brushes gently, impossibly softly over Gi-hun's knuckles. His grip tightens just a little, not in threat, but in reassurance. In comfort.

In understanding.

Gi-hun’s heart stutters violently. His eyes blur anew, tears slipping down his cheeks unchecked. He doesn’t speak - h can’t speak. He just stares helplessly into the mask, desperate to see beneath it, desperate to see the eyes he knows must be staring right back at him.

After a long, unbearable moment, the Guard gently lowers Gi-hun's hand. Their fingers remain entwined for a beat longer, suspended in the charged space between them. It feels like forever. It feels like no time at all.

Then, with excruciating slowness, the Guard slips his fingers free. He steps back silently, takes up the tray once more, and moves toward the door.

It closes behind him with barely a sound.

Gi-hun crumples. His knees buckle, and he stumbles backward, collapsing onto the bench, body wracked by sobs he can’t hold back any longer. His fingers tremble violently as he presses his hands to his face, gasping for breath between choking cries.

He doesn’t understand what just happened. Doesn’t understand why his heart aches so fiercely, why his chest feels hollowed out yet overflowing at the same time. He’s drowning in confusion, drowning in longing, drowning in the shameful sweetness of that brief, forbidden contact.

Eventually, the tears slow, leaving him empty and exhausted. He lifts his head, eyes swollen and red, gaze catching once more on the white mask lying silently in the corner.

It stares back, cold and merciless, condemning him for silently holding onto a ghost whose name he won't dare speak, whose memory he guards like something sacred, untouched and achingly pure.  

And for denying the dark truth that drips from every desperate breath: that soon he'll crawl willingly toward the throne, kneel beside the man who ruined him, and beg beautifully to be destroyed all over again.

Notes:

So. That happened.

Look, I don’t know how we got here either. One minute we were neck-deep in death games, organ trafficking, moral collapse, and a surprise baby delivery (shoutout to Geum-ja, legend forever), and now… this. Whatever this is. Power play. Emotional whiplash. Grief. Ghosts. Silence that feels like touch. That other kind of violence.

If you’re still breathing, I’d love to hear what wrecked you the most. Kudos and comments are deeply appreciated - offer your thoughts, threats, sobs, or complex essays. I will cherish them all.

Next chapter? Yeah, well. Let’s just say the spiral doesn’t stop here.

Until next time.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!

Here I am again, dragging you all back into the emotional fire pit with a brand new, freshly unhinged chapter. The angst? Never been heavier. (Just preparing you. Sorry.)

I may have blacked out while writing because this chapter is... long. Like, longer than usual long. I got carried away. Again. You know how it is.

Quick heads up though - I’ve got to lock in on college for a while, so updates might be slower from now on. I hate it too. I wish I had the time to disappear into this fic the way I want to, to reread and rephrase every line until it bleeds just right - but classes exist. Assignments exist. Sleep is a myth. So please forgive me in advance if the next chapter takes a bit longer to surface.

For now, though: buckle in. Cry a little. Scream a lot.

Enjoy!

He’s walking. That much he knows.

The rest... he’s less certain about.

One. Two. Three.

He counts the steps. It gives shape to the dark.

Four. Five. Six. The soles of his shoes whisper across polished floors. The corridor turns.

Seven. Eight.

He used to be good at this. At numbers. Not the kind you write on blackboards or circle on tests. He was useless at those. But the kind that mattered. The kind you carried in your head like weapons.

Nine. Ten… Eleven.

He used to know exactly how much he owed to the men who threatened to steal his organs. How much he could get away with lying to the bank without a penalty. How many grains of rice he could scrape between two chipped bowls - his and his mother’s - and still call it dinner. Always more in hers. Always less in his. That was the math of love.

Twelve. Thirteen.

He used to count the pills by his mother’s bedside, even if he couldn’t remember if they were for her blood pressure or her cholesterol. Twenty-three, then eighteen, then ten - always delaying the trip to the drugstore because he couldn’t afford the refill.

Fourteen. Fifteen…  Sixteen. Seventeen.

And his daughter. The last time he heard her voice. That last call, right before he left again. Back to this island, this place. He couldn’t speak. Just breathing, listening, counting the silence between them like it might forgive him for being her father. He hung up after forty-one seconds. Never said goodbye. Never said anything.

…Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

He used to know exactly how much he owed the world, and exactly how little the world owed him back.

Now he isn’t sure of anything at all. Least of all the corridors beneath his feet. They feel the same. They could be walking him in circles. Turning him around. Changing the route every time he blinks behind the blindfold.

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

Another turn. A longer hallway. He stumbles slightly, shoulder brushing a wall. The Guard behind him doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even acknowledge it.

Twenty-…two?

Shit.

He blinks beneath the blindfold. He miscounted. Or maybe the corridor twisted twice when he wasn’t paying attention. Maybe the hallway moved.

Twenty-three? He thinks it’s twenty-three. But his foot drags. Maybe that was still twenty. Or nineteen.

He starts over.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Gi-hun wonders if he’s being taken back to the VIP room. That false ocean, glowing softly blue beneath a ceiling of deceitful calm. Velvet chairs. Classical music, too gentle, too refined - wrong, somehow. Everything a mockery. Everything a performance. He imagines the men waiting there, golden masks hiding smiles full of polished contempt.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

They’ll be waiting, won’t they? Watching. Laughing. "Look how docile he is now,” they’ll say. “Look how tame. Look how easy it was to break him."

Eleven. Twelve.

He thinks of Jun-hee. Still alive? Maybe. Maybe not. He tells himself yes. That she’ll be there for the final Game. That she’ll survive it. That Hyun-ju will protect her. That she’ll run, if she has to. Kill, if she must. That they’ll find a way to win.

Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

And the baby - God. The baby. Is he still in the medical wing? Did they feed him? Is he in some blank white crib right now, breathing under a light that never turns off? Does he cry? Does someone pick him up when he does?

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Sixteen…?

…Seven…Seventeen?

No. Something’s wrong. He was already at fourteen. Or fifteen. Or-

The numbers start to fall apart. They collapse like wet paper in rain.

And from their ashes: a memory.

Not even a memory. A feeling. A hand.

That hand, holding the razor. The Circle Guard. The silence between them not cold, but weighted. The way those fingers moved, cautious, precise, as if they already knew his face.

He wonders now if he imagined it, if desperation and loneliness could forge recognition from nothing.

But still, he should’ve said it. The name.

Should have whispered it. Just once.

Just to confirm. Just to be sure.

Or perhaps just to hurt himself one last time with hope.

Would the Guard have flinched? Would his hands have shaken? Would he have said something? A word. A syllable. Anything.

Or would he have stayed perfectly still, proving Gi-hun’s madness once and for all?

Maybe that uncertainty is preferable to knowing. Maybe all truths, in the end, are crueler than their alternatives.

He hasn’t said that name in four years. Not since the moment he held a dying man in his arms, blood slick and heavy, soaking into the dirt. He’d thought then that some things died along with the body - that names, like memories, faded quietly with time. But this name remains loud, persistent, a ghost haunting the darkest corners of his mind.

Hope, he thinks bitterly, is crueler than anything these masked creatures could do to him. Because hope never quite dies, not fully. It waits, dormant and cruel, ready to bloom again at the slightest encouragement.

Hope is the most elegant kind of torture.

Not the bullets. Not the cages. Not the starvation, or the blindfold, or the blood on the tiles that never quite dries.

Hope is worse.

Because pain, at least, tells the truth.

Pain says: You are nothing.

Pain says: You are a body.

Pain says: You are breakable, and we will break you again, and again, and again, until even your screams forget your name.

But hope… Hope looks you in the eye with a familiar tilt of the head. Hope lays a careful hand on your jaw. Hope listens when you babble about stupid childhood haircuts and love letters you never sent.

Hope tilts its masked head like it remembers the way you used to laugh before the world assigned you the number ‘456’ and called it identity.

Hope makes you believe - even now - that someone still sees you beneath the rot.

But…What if this is all a trick?

What if they made someone mimic a dead man?

What if they studied the footage, every angle, every pause, every head tilt, and taught someone to be him, move like him, breathe like him, stand like him, listen like him - just to see how far they could break Gi-hun?

“Fuck,” he whispers.

But it’s louder than he thought.

A hand slams into his back-sharp, warning.

“Shut up.”

He winces. Stumbles.

His feet drag forward again.

And then he realizes. He forgot to count. He forgot to fucking count.

Was he on seventeen? Eighteen? Had he hit twenty already?

He can’t remember.

The numbers are gone, swallowed by the shape of a memory he can't prove is real.

He clenches his jaw so tight his molars ache. His mind scrambles, tries to rebuild the rhythm. One, two, three, four, ...

And then they stop.

The blindfold peels away. Reality floods back with an unbearable clarity.

He stands, blinking slowly into the familiar warmth of the Front Man’s quarters. Not the cold fluorescent horror of the VIP room - no false ocean glittering softly beneath cruel, golden masks. No velvet seats or mocking symphonies.

Just this room: warmly lit, soft and deceptive in its invitation, filled with the scent of wood polish and quiet dread.

The two leather armchairs stand side by side, empty now, perfectly positioned, as if waiting patiently for their occupants to return. Gi-hun’s gaze falls upon them, something inside him aching at their closeness, at their quiet promise.

Gi-hun’s pulse quickens with a dark, horrible relief that he’s here instead, that he isn't back in that room of humiliation, in front of the VIP’s.

He glances quickly at the Guards who brought him here, but they’ve already faded back, motionless shadows at the far wall.

Gi-hun's eyes fall back to the chairs.

And his feet move.

He tells himself he’s just observing. Just checking. Just... gathering intel. That’s all this is. Not curiosity. Not attraction. Not temptation.

And before he knows what he's doing, his fingers are trailing along the armrest of the one on the right.

His chair.

The surface is warm. Softer than it should be. Solid beneath his hand. Expensive. Clean. A chair that wasn’t made to hold bodies, but decisions. Orders. Power.

And just for a second he imagines sinking into it.

He imagines the weight of it beneath him, wrapping around his shoulders like authority. Imagines tilting his head to the side, calmly, masked, while a room full of men waits to hear him speak. His hands draped over the armrests like they belong there. Imagines someone kneeling before him.

Imagines-

“Made yourself comfortable?”

Gi-hun jolts so violently he almost stumbles backward, fingers tearing away from the leather like he'd been caught doing something obscene.

The Front Man stands watching him from a side doorway, calm and still. That dark mask tilted slightly, unreadable, somehow knowing.

Gi-hun scowls immediately, feeling foolish and defensive.

“Jesus, warn a guy first,” he snaps irritably, stepping back from the chair as though burned.

“My apologies,” the Front Man answers quietly, utterly unapologetic. He moves forward slowly, silently appraising Gi-hun from behind that reflective mask.

“You look…clean.”

Gi-hun’s mouth twists bitterly.

"Yeah? A shower and new clothes tend to have that effect. Glad I meet your goddamn standards now."

The Front Man doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at him. Really looks.

His gaze drags slowly down Gi-hun’s body, head to toe, like he’s cataloging every inch. The white tracksuit - clean, clinging in all the wrong places - suddenly feels too visible, vulnerable. Gi-hun shifts under the weight of it, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“I have to admit,” the Front Man says eventually, voice smooth as glass, “I wasn’t entirely sure which you’d pick.”

Gi-hun goes still.

“What the fuck do you mean, which I’d pick?”

“You were offered a choice, weren’t you?” The Front Man’s voice is maddeningly gentle. “To remain as Player, or to dress... otherwise. A more elevated role, let’s say. And from what I’ve heard, you stood in that room for quite some time.”

Gi-hun freezes, face flooding with heat, shame twisting hotly inside him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snaps. “Were there cameras in the bathroom? Were you watching me lose my shit like some sick-”

“No cameras,” the Front Man interrupts, unbothered. “I was told. The Guard said you had… a moment.”

Gi-hun’s stomach churns. Shame rises sharp and acidic in his throat.

That fucking Triangle. Of course he reported it. ‘Subject displayed signs of emotional collapse. Sweating. Hyperventilation. Eyes red.’

“A moment,” Gi-hun scoffs, his voice low and bitter. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Christ. You make it sound like I took a fucking sabbatical.”

He shoots the Front Man a look, dark and wounded. 

“So, did he describe it in vivid detail? And you - what? Sat there listening to him and laughed?”

The Front Man takes another slow step forward. “I don’t consider emotional collapse entertaining.”

“Oh,” Gi-hun snaps. “So you do call it a collapse.”

There’s a beat. The Front Man’s head tilts again, thoughtful.

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t call it a breakdown. At least, not entirely. I’d prefer to call it... a moment of clarity. A rupture, maybe. But also a very intense moment of personal reflection.”

Gi-hun barks out a laugh.

“Right. ‘Personal reflection.’ Between your branded tracksuit and your fucking uniform.”

He steps forward, gesturing to the white cloth clinging to his skin like guilt.

“Two options, both designed to fuck with me. The participant costume or the executioner’s skin. Great choices. Really humane. But yeah, I picked the tracksuit. Because between playing your game or becoming one of you... I figured I’d rather die still knowing who I am.”

The Front Man looks at him.

“Is that what you told yourself?” the Front Man murmurs. “That you made the righteous choice?”

Gi-hun’s face twists, jaw clenched.

“I made the choice that didn’t make me sick to wear.”

The Front Man nods slowly, as if absorbing this like data. Then-

“And yet you touched the chair. Just now.”

Gi-hun stills.

The room feels smaller suddenly, like the walls inch inward with every breath.

"It’s not weakness," The Front Man doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. "To want something that frightens you. Even power. Especially power."

Although the mask is expressionless, the voice behind it carries something that almost resembles regret.

"Most people don’t crave it until it’s the only thing that hasn’t broken them.”

Gi-hun laughs.

"No," he spits, voice rising, too loud. "No. That -  It’s just chair. I was just-“ He gestures helplessly, wildly. His hands won’t stay still. “Why do you say all that shit like it means something? Like touching a chair makes me complicit in your-your- whatever the fuck this is?”

But even as he says it, his voice falters. Because he remembers what it felt like.

The softness of the leather. The weight of it. The way it almost... welcomed him. Like it knew. Like it had been waiting for him.

The Front Man angles his head.

“If it were just a chair, Player 456,” he says quietly, “you wouldn’t be this defensive about it.”

And just like that, Gi-hun shuts up.

His lips part like he might argue, but nothing comes. Because there’s nothing to say.

No, that’s not true - there are things to say. Thousands of them. He could scream, he could laugh, he could lunge forward and rip that mask off and ask the man underneath if he’s proud of what he sees.

Because he knows it was just a chair. It was. 

Four legs, leather, wood. No mind, no meaning, no heartbeat. He could say that. Should say that. Should shout it, maybe.

But his hand had moved on its own. And he remembers wanting to sit down.

No, no. That’s not what it was. That’s not what it meant.

He is tired. That’s all. Starving. Disoriented. Anyone would’ve leaned on something. Anyone would’ve-

He wasn’t reaching for power.

Right?

Gi-hun swallows hard, his throat burning. He wants to say it again. ‘It’s just a chair.’

But even in his own head, the words don’t land.

“The final Game begins shortly,” the Front Man announces quietly, almost conversationally.

Gi-hun’s heart kicks painfully against his ribs. He scoffs.

“Then why am I here? Why aren’t we in that room? With the pigs. Watching it all go to hell on the big screen. That was the plan, wasn’t it?” His voice cracks. “Drinks. Applause. Blood.”

“No.” That’s all the Front Man says.

Gi-hun stares at him.

“No?” he echoes, breathless.

But the Front Man is already moving. Slowly, he raises one gloved hand, holding something - a neatly folded sheet of paper, pristine white, sharp-edged, held between two fingers.

“You’re good at memorizing, aren’t you?” he asks. “This shouldn’t be difficult.”

Gi-hun stiffens. His eyes narrow.

“What is that?”

The Front Man takes a step forward. The distance between them shrinks until it feels unbearable. 

Gi-hun doesn't move. He tells himself it’s defiance, but his breath is coming too fast.

The Front Man stops in front of him. Close enough that Gi-hun can feel the warmth rolling off his body. Close enough to hear his breathing.

“Every role,” the Front Man says softly, “comes with a script. A set of expectations. A shape you’re meant to fit.”

“I don’t play your fucking roles,” Gi-hun rasps, low and raw.

The Front Man tilts his head, slowly. Like a man observing a specimen beneath glass.

“Oh?” he murmurs. “You don’t?”

He steps closer again. Gi-hun catches his own reflection in the mask - distorted, fractured. Like a stranger looking back.

“Then explain the man who followed the rules,” the Front Man says, voice calm, unnervingly soft. “The man who lined up when he was told. Who took food when it was offered. Who bathed when instructed. Who dressed in what was laid out for him.”

His voice dips lower. Warmer.

“You call it resistance,” he says. “But you complied. Over and over.”

His voice is low enough now that Gi-hun could swear it’s in his ear.

“You don’t play by the rules?” the Front Man asks. “Then what exactly have you been doing, Player 456? You play. You resist. You break. You return. And every time-”

He leans in. Not touching. Just… close.

“-you follow.”

Gi-hun’s breath shudders out of him.

The Front Man extends the folded paper, holding it between them like an offering. His voice softens again, so soft it makes Gi-hun's skin prickle.

“No one forced you to touch the chair.”

Gi-hun stares at him, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in shallow, broken breaths.

He reaches out.

Their fingers brush - barely. But it’s enough.

A flicker. A shock. A charge so sharp it makes Gi-hun’s knees weaken.

“When you’re ready,” the Front Man says gently, his tone now maddeningly kind. “Begin reading.”

He steps back, just slightly. Enough to give Gi-hun air he doesn’t want. 

Gi-hun stands trembling, holding the paper as though it might burn him, staring blankly at its precise folds.

He lifts his head abruptly, looking directly at the Front Man. The silence stretches between them, electric and dangerous.

Then slowly, shakily, he unfolds the paper.

His eyes skim the top, expecting it to make immediate sense. A name, maybe. A schedule. Maybe a threat. But the words don’t form anything at first. His brain refuses them. They sit there on the page like foreign objects - cold, wrong, out of place. Then a few of them begin to arrange themselves.

 

ANNOUNCER PROTOCOL – FINAL GAME

Subject: Player 456 (In-Field Authority, Verbal Execution of Final Instructions)

 

His number. Of course. Stamped there like a brand. Nothing else. No name. No title. No mercy. Just the number they buried him in four years ago. He frowns, reads the first line, then the next. The words settle slowly.

‘Announcer must enter the arena prior to the Players.’
‘Announcer must stand on the Central Line.
‘Announcer will deliver the script in full. No deviation, no improvisation.’
‘Unscripted interaction will be considered interference.’
‘Interference will result in elimination of the addressed Player.’
‘Emotional tone discouraged. Maintain authoritative presence.’  

He stops. Blinks. Reads the header again.

ANNOUNCER

No. No, that can’t be right. That isn’t right. His brain rejects the word like poison. He stares at it, uncomprehending, like maybe he’s misreading it - like the letters will rearrange if he just blinks hard enough. He holds the page further from his face, tilts it like there might be something hidden beneath it. A second layer. The real one. The one meant for him.

Any second now, a Circle Guard will come walking in, say nothing, pluck the page from his hands and replace it with the correct one. The one that says “Winner.” Or “Player.” Or “Observer.” Hell, he’d take “Prisoner.” Anything but this. 

Except it isn’t a mistake.

Announcer. Player 456. Still there. Centered. Burned in.

Still him.

He sways slightly. The edges of the room blur.

This can’t be happening.

He’s not watching the Game. He’s not playing it. He’s not surviving it.

He’s delivering it.

His head jerks up, fast. The Front Man is still there - motionless, impassive, more statue than man. 

Gi-hun’s breath comes unevenly now, fast and shallow.

“You’re joking,” he says. “Tell me this is a fucking joke.”

Silence.

He holds the paper up like it’s evidence.

“You want me to stand there? Say the lines? Read the rules while they-” His voice cracks. “No. No, I’m not-I’m not doing this.”

The paper in his hand flutters like it's laughing.

Gi-hun steps forward, hand trembling.

“You gave me a Square’s job. That’s what this is, isn’t it? “Just like… back then.”

The words fall quieter, thinner. His throat tightens, but he keeps going. A whisper now, barely audible.

“Just like when we played… when I… when I stood in the sand with…”

He doesn’t say the name. He can’t. His brain flinches back from it like a hot stove.

But the image is there.

A man across from him. Blood on his face. Betrayal in his eyes.

And just beyond them the Square Guard. Announcing the Game. Calm. Efficient. Assigning who attacked, who defended. Laying down the law with that dead voice while everything inside Gi-hun was screaming.

The memory guts him.

And now it’s him in that role. His voice they’ll be hearing.

“You want me to be that,” he says, voice breaking around the edges. “You want me to stand in the place where I almost died and make someone else do it-again. Again.”

The silence stretches, cold and taut.

“You think this is redemption?” he spits. “You think making me say the words means I understand something now? That I’ve earned this? What, is this some fucking ritual to prove I’ve changed?”

the Front Man speaks. His voice is soft, but different now - just a trace of steel beneath the calm.

“Keep reading.”

The voice cuts through him like a wire pulled tight across the throat.

Gi-hun freezes.

It’s not loud, or cruel. But it’s absolute - the kind of command that doesn’t ask, or threaten, or rise. It just is. A voice carved from authority so deep it no longer requires force to be obeyed.

His mouth goes dry. He hates how fast his body obeys. The way the rebellion in him stutters. The way his shoulders flinch, then still. The way the heat drains from his outrage.

He swallows hard, jaw locked tight enough to hurt. Then, slowly, he looks back down.

The next section is headed plainly: 

 

OFFICIAL RULES OF PLAY

Arena Designation: Red Light, Green Light Field (Modified)

FINAL GAME:

 

The title of the Game hits him like a misplaced photograph - familiar but in the wrong context, the wrong lighting, the wrong century. He blinks hard, then again. No. That’s not right. That’s not-

But it is. That name. That Game.

He knows it. He knows it too well. It's not like Marbles or Tug-of-War or those ones with chalk and lines and rules you argue over. This one never needed teaching. It was just there. Like it had always existed. Like it had been passed down in the blood.

The first few lines trip him. His eyes skim over them, and something strange happens in his chest: warmth. Like a flicker of childhood.

He knows these rules. Every one of them. Could recite them backwards. He can feel them in his bones, in the backs of his hands, in the sound his teeth made when he grinned too wide and got scolded.

This was his Game. Family gatherings. A blanket rolled out on the floor. Rain battering the windows. The smell of something boiling in the kitchen. Someone’s elbow in his ribs as they fought overturns. Shouted instructions and cheating cousins. His mother’s voice. Ga-yeong, screaming with joy when she won. Nobody kept score. That was the point.

Everything is so familiar.

But then he gets to the next line.

And the next.

And he stops.

What?

No, no, that’s not right. That’s not - what is that?

He reads it again.

There’s something new. Inserted. Not part of the original rhythm. Not part of what his hands remember. Not what they shouted when they played at holidays. Not what he taught his daughter.

New conditions. Extra outcomes.

A rule he’s never said. A word that didn’t belong. A path that wasn’t there before.

At first, he thinks he’s misreading. That the letters are swimming. But no. They’re real. Clear.

He reads faster now, desperate to reach the bottom before it all curdles. The further he goes, the worse it gets. More rules. More changes. More cruelty.

Some of it’s subtle. Language warped just slightly enough to tilt everything sideways.

Others are blatant.

There’s a short, precise clause.

‘A Player may win by successfully completing the Game or by eliminating all other Players.’

He blinks once. Then again.

No, no, that can’t be right. That isn’t - That isn’t how it goes. That’s not the rule. That was never the rule. That was never even a possibility. There was always a winner, sure - but not like this. Not instead of this.

He reads it again. Slower this time.

‘…or by eliminating all other Players.’

That’s what it says.

That’s what it fucking says.

He feels his pulse slam into his ears, heavy and deafening. His hands are slick with sweat now, the paper softening under his grip.

Then the final line. The sentence that doesn’t need to be long. 

‘Only one winner.’

That’s it. No ties. No shared victories. No alliances that last longer than the opening move.

Only one.

The paper trembles in his hands, and he doesn’t realize he’s been whispering. Not words. Just sound, some broken hum from his throat. Trying to drown it out. Trying not to be here.

He lifts his head slowly.

The Front Man hasn’t moved. 

Gi-hun’s mouth is dry.

“This Game,” he says. “You took this one.”

No answer.

“You took this Game. Out of everything - out of all the games you could’ve ripped apart and fed to your monsters, you chose this one?”

He shakes the paper at him, hands shaking now with fury.

“This isn’t a game! This is a memory! This is - this is a holiday! This is family, this is mine, and you-” His voice cracks. “You turned it into this?”

Still nothing.

His chest is heaving. The page crinkles in his fist.

“You’re sick,” he snarls. “You’re actually fucking sick.”

Still no answer.

Gi-hun’s chest heaves. The paper is a mess in his hands now. Wrinkled, bent, sweat-wet. But he keeps reading. Because he has to.

At the bottom, the script.

One continuous block, designed for recitation. 

‘Welcome, Players, to the Final Game. Each Player must participate independently. No teams are permitted. The Game will be played in full until one Player emerges as the final Winner. Victory may be achieved by completing the Game or by eliminating all other Players. Interference of any kind will result in immediate disqualification. You may begin when the signal is given.”

He reads the words. Slowly. Then faster. Then again, slower, as if changing the tempo might change the meaning. But it doesn’t. These are the words he has to say. On that field. In front of the last five. To their faces.

To Jun-hee.

To Hyun-ju.

How the hell is Jun-hee supposed to play this? She’s not even healed. She’s still hollow from labor, still shaking, still bleeding inside. They already took her baby from her. And now she’s supposed to - what? Run? Climb? Fight? Kill?

And Hyun-ju. Steady. Loyal. So fucking strong. She’ll protect Jun-hee. Of course she will. She’s always protected her.

But what happens when the protection runs out? When it’s the two of them left, standing there, and there’s only one place to go?

They’ll be forced to turn on each other. They’ll be made to.

One winner. And four corpses.

He presses a hand over his mouth, hard enough to leave marks. His shoulders shake.

“You want me to kill them with my voice,” he whispers. “That’s what this is.”

The Front Man doesn’t respond.

Gi-hun lowers the paper.

He breathes in, just to keep from screaming.

“Why,” he says, through clenched teeth. “Why this?” His voice rises. “Why this job, huh? This Guard role? Is this the future you saw for me? This?” He waves the crumpled paper in the air, a hand trembling with rage and betrayal. “Didn’t you say you wanted me beside you? That I was special? That I’d understand eventually?” His throat breaks on the word. “So why this?”

The mask doesn’t move.

“Is this your idea of a promotion? Hand me a script and call it destiny? You wanted me to be like you, right?” The words come out soaked in disgust. “You wanted me to wear the suit, sit in this fucking chair, smile down at the carnage.”

He’s trembling now, his voice cracking.

“You said I could be more. So why - why give me this job?”

And then the Front Man speaks, just slightly firmer than before.

“You chose the tracksuit. That was your answer. Not the mask. You refused it.”

Gi-hun blinks. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until his mouth fills with salt.

“I told you before,” the Front Man says. “This is the space you occupy now. Between roles. Player… or a place beside me. You wanted to stay in between.”

His mask flicks to the crumpled script still clutched in Gi-hun’s hand.

“And this,” he says softly, “is what the in-between looks like.”

Gi-hun lets out a sound like an animal being cornered.

The paper falls from his hand and hits the floor like a verdict. It lands face-up. The bold words stare back up at him like they were waiting.

“This isn’t punishment,” the Front Man says, voice quiet but steady. “It’s perspective.”

Gi-hun twitches. His head turns slowly, like he’s not sure if he heard it or dreamed it or if the words crawled out of the floor itself.

“You’ve seen the Games from the bottom. You’ve survived it. And now you see it from here.” The Front Man nods toward the script still lying on the floor, face-up like a corpse. “From just above. Just outside. Not quite a Player. Not quite the one in the mask. But close enough to feel both.”

He takes a step forward - calm, measured, as if approaching an altar. “And that position - this vantage - you chose it. No one assigned it to you. You stepped into it yourself, when you refused the mask. When you dressed in the tracksuit.”

Gi-hun’s throat makes a sound, a wet hitch of air he barely manages to swallow. And then - he sobs. A broken, ugly, involuntary thing. It leaves him hunched, shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers. “I didn’t know that’s what I was choosing. I didn’t know I’d actually have to…God-”

He covers his face. He can't bear the sound of himself.

The Front Man doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

“No one ever does. That’s why perspective matters.”

Gi-hun looks up. Eyes wild, rimmed red.

The Front Man waits a beat. Watches Gi-hun shake.

“People believe their choices are symbolic. You believed that refusing the mask was an act of protest. That the tracksuit was neutral. But symbolism is only clean until it collides with real consequence.”

He pauses, letting the silence land before finishing.

“You made a choice. Now you’re seeing what that choice actually means.”

Gi-hun laughs. A dry, broken little sound that doesn’t go anywhere, caught halfway between his ribs and his throat. His body is bent forward and he crosses his arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s trying to hold something in, or maybe trying to keep everything else from getting out. He doesn’t look up. Just breathes, shallow and ugly.

He thinks maybe he should throw something. Say something smart. Laugh in his face. But the weight in his chest is too heavy, and everything feels just a little too distant.

So he does nothing.

“You said I once told you that you were special.” The Front Man’s voice comes again, closer than before. 

Gi-hun’s mouth twists. He keeps his gaze on the floor.  

“You were right,” the Front Man continues.

Gi-hun flinches. His head snaps up, eyes blazing, lips curling.

“Don’t-” he chokes out. “Don’t say it again like it means something.”

But the man continues, calm as ever.

“I did say it,” he says. “And I meant it. I still do.”

A single gloved hand rises with the kind of certainty that doesn’t need to reach. Because it knows it will arrive.

Gi-hun sees it out of the corner of his eye. Coming closer.

And then - it touches him.

The glove brushes the curve of his cheek, like it belongs there. Like the skin was always waiting for it.

Gi-hun jerks.

His body straightens violently, like he’s been slapped. He twists away, sharp and fast and too late, the contact already made, already felt, already archived somewhere just under his skin.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps, eyes wild. “Don’t you fucking touch me like that.”

The Front Man doesn’t flinch. The hand stays in the air for a moment longer. Then slowly lowers.

“You don’t get to touch me like you care,” Gi-hun growls. “You don’t get to look at me like I’m something delicate.”

“I never said you were delicate,” the man replies softly.

Gi-hun bares his teeth.

“You think you can cry with me, comfort me, and I’ll forget what this is?”

He steps back. One foot. Two. His voice rises, unsteady.

“You can’t manipulate me into wanting this. Whatever this is. I’m not some broken fucking stray you can patch up and leash.”

His chest heaves. His hands twitch at his sides like they want to hit something, or grab something, or maybe just hold something they shouldn’t.

The Front Man watches him, quiet and patient.

And Gi-hun doesn’t move. He stays still, breath trembling, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame curdling low in his gut.

“I can offer you more than this,” the Front Man says, his voice low, molten. “More than what you’ve already allowed yourself to become.”

Gi-hun exhales hard through his nose. 

He doesn’t want to admit it - but it’s happening again. The quiet ache of attention, curling low. The heat of proximity, licking along his nerves like static. That voice sliding under his skin and rooting itself there, coiled and waiting.

His mind screams, but his limbs don’t move.

“I see it,” the Front Man says, closer now, stepping forward. “The thing inside you. That fire. That defiance. It’s still there. Even now.”

Gi-hun’s eyes flick up, wild and glassy.

“You think it makes you dangerous,” the Front Man says. “But I think it makes you divine.”

Gi-hun’s breath shudders. He hates that word. He hates how it lands. He hates how his body - his stupid, pathetic body - reacts to it. His chest expands with it. His blood drags slower in his veins. Like he’s absorbing it.

"You could be seen,” the Front Man continues. “Not as a mistake. Not as something to be corrected or discarded. No. You could been as you are. With all your fury. Your fire. Your ruin. I could place you where no one would dare look away.”

Gi-hun shakes his head in a single, fractured movement. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to pretend he still has control. But his mouth doesn’t open, his voice won’t come.

He tells himself he’s trying to resist.

He tells himself this means nothing.

The Front Man leans closer - just a fraction.

“If you sat where I sit,” he breathes, “that fire would flourish.”

Gi-hun wipes his face with the back of one trembling hand, rough and fast, like he’s trying to scrape the salt off his skin. The tears stop - not because they’ve run out, but because he’s shoving them back down his throat.

He forces the air in his lungs into something like rhythm.

It doesn’t help.

He can still feel it - the way the Front Man is looking at him. Not like he’s assessing, or planning. No-

Like he’s adoring.

Like he’s devouring him whole, and politely waiting for permission to swallow.

“You don’t need to fix that heat.”

Gi-hun’s knees buckle slightly.

“You don’t need to fear it.”

The gloved hand reaches out - not to his face this time. Lower.

It lands on his arm, light, gentle. His bicep, just above the elbow. The contact makes Gi-hun’s spine jolt like he’s been hit. But he doesn’t pull away. He can’t.

He shouldn’t react. He shouldn’t.

“I see what you are,” he whispers. “And it’s beautiful.”

Gi-hun lets out a breath that sounds almost like a whimper.

His eyes are wide, glassy, starving - like they’re trying to pull the man into them, to swallow every flicker of movement, every breath between words. Not just to see him, but to take him in whole, to keep the voice, the mask, the unbearable promise beneath both. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at anymore. A man. A god. A mirror. A mouth he might never stop hearing.

And oh - oh, God-

He’s hard.

He knows it. He feels it. The slow, hot press of it against the inside of his pants, like his body is answering a question he hasn’t spoken aloud.

His stomach clenches. A hot spike of shame blooms in his chest, but even that doesn’t move him. Doesn’t free him. His body is anchored in place, transfixed, ruined by the sound of that voice and the gentleness of the hand on his arm.

He hates this.

He hates this.

He wants more.

He wants him to keep talking. Wants the voice pressed in his ear, worshiping the worst parts of him. Wants the hand on his arm to move - higher, lower, anywhere. Wants to be called beautiful again.

He wants-

He wants and he wants and he wants, and it’s rotting him alive.

He tells himself to look away. To break the moment. To speak, scream, fight.

But he stays frozen, spellbound. Because it feels good to be seen like this.

And that might be the most unforgivable thing of all.

The hand on his arm disappears like smoke, but the warmth stays.

His skin tingles from it. That exact shape - fingers above the elbow, palm brushing the curve of his bicep. It's still there. Even after the Front Man withdraws, Gi-hun feels the print of him, like it’s been ironed into the muscle.

His skin has learned the glove.

Gi-hun stays frozen, standing in the heat of that absence, lips parted. 

But then the Front Man steps back.

“Come,” he says gently, as if the spell had never been cast. “I want to show you something.”

And Gi-hun follows - without question, without thought, like a man already halfway dreaming.

The corridor is close, within the Front Man’s own quarters. A stretch of matte walls and silent doors, all identical, all blank.

They stop at one of the doors. The Front Man opens it with a single hand.

“This is my workspace,” he says, stepping into the glow. “Yours too, if you’d like.”

Gi-hun steps forward like he’s being born.

The room unfolds around him - low-lit and golden, as if dusk had been poured into a vessel and sealed. No windows. No clocks. Just soft amber light and impossible quiet, a silence too deep to belong to any ordinary space.

It is beautiful.

A disturbing, careful, unnatural kind of beauty. Every surface polished. Every shadow placed. It feels curated, staged.

The walls are lined with bookshelves - dark wood, tall and orderly. Files. Binders. Slim electronics. Glass cases. 

And in the center of the room - two desks. Identical. Black, lacquered, minimal. 

Gi-hun’s eyes fall to the untouched desk first.

His desk.

He doesn’t need to be told. It announces itself without speaking. A single lamp. A closed notebook. A pen centered on the pad like it had been measured into place. The chair tucked neatly in. The surface empty, not abandoned but expectant. Waiting.

He walks to it without thinking. His hand reaches out. Fingers touch the surface. It’s warm.

It shouldn’t be. But it is.

And he can’t pull away.

His palm spreads across the surface, pressing lightly. The heat sinks into his skin like memory.

Behind him, the Front Man speaks, his voice steady and low.

“This is where the work is done. It’s not glamour. Not theater. It’s administration, vision, control.”

Gi-hun doesn’t turn. He just listens, still touching the desk.

“In the last seven months,” the voice continues, “I’ve overseen the restructuring of our global sponsorship network. Reviewed thirty-three full game proposals. Approved six. Designed four from the ground up. I’ve recruited two new personnel tiers. Commissioned three staff rotations. Balanced prize pools. Finalized insurance protocols for fourteen jurisdictions. And met with five investment groups in Geneva alone.”

Gi-hun sways slightly where he stands.

“Do you do all that alone?” he hears himself ask, voice thin, caught somewhere between awe and confusion.

“I have a team,” the Front Man replies. “But I am the final voice. The face of the Games. The one who answers for everything. And if you accept-”

He pauses. Steps forward.

“-so will you be.”

Gi-hun turns.

And sees the second desk.

He hadn’t truly looked at it until now. His focus had been drawn to the pristine twin, the promise of it. But now his eyes land on the one in use, and something inside him freezes.

It is the same shape. The same model. But it breathes.

Two monitors glow against the dark, their screens filled with symbols and systems Gi-hun can’t read. A ceramic mug, still steaming faintly. A fountain pen. And there, laid out with perfect precision - five folders.

They’re lined up like relics. Stacked with mathematical care. The topmost page of each bears the same title in stark, black print:

 

2024 EDITION

 

Each one is paired with a face.

Gi-hun steps closer, slowly, the way a man approaches a grave he didn’t know was his.

Player 84. Player 306. Player 435. He knows the numbers. The O-Players. Their faces flat and cold. Already drained of anything human.

Then.

Hyun-ju. Not smiling, but present. Alert. Her mouth is firm, her eyes steady, her skin smooth. She looks capable. She looks like she hasn’t yet been cornered into choosing between death and worse.

And next-

Jun-hee. Smiling. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Head tilted slightly. She looks soft, trusting.

Gi-hun’s body goes still.

Not with awe - no, not anymore. With recognition. With a kind of sickness.

Gi-hun blinks once and the illusion unravels.

The room is no longer gold-lit or sacred. It’s sterile. Stage-lit. False. A set built to flatter a role he never agreed to play.

And whatever pull he’d felt - whatever heat had been curling in his lower belly like want - it’s gone. Evaporated. Replaced by something cold and crawling. Revulsion, maybe. Or clarity. Or both.

This is not an office. It never was.

It’s a war room dressed in reverence. A place where death is budgeted.

These are the final five. And four of them will die.

And the folders - they’re not files. They’re epitaphs written in advance.

He turns away.

He can’t look at them anymore. At her face. At Jun-hee’s eyes caught in mid-smile, a lamb cataloged for slaughter. At Hyun-ju’s chin held so proudly, like the system hadn’t already written her out.

He looks at the man in the mask. That still, black thing. 

And for once, the words don’t stumble.

“Was this your plan?” he asks, voice low and blistered. “Seduce me?”

The word hisses between his teeth, poisonous. He takes a step forward, jabbing a finger into the air between them.

“The flattery. That ridiculous speech about fire and ruin and whatever-the-fuck you think I want to hear. Did you think that would change my mind about this?”

He jabs a hand toward the desk, toward the files still spread like autopsy reports across polished wood.

“What’s the point of showing me these? Lining them up like sacrifices, like trophies?”

His voice sharpens and picks up speed. His chest rises with it.

“What did you think would happen? That I’d look at their faces, remember the blood I’ve already swallowed and suddenly see the light? Like, ‘oh wow, this is hard but necessary?’ That I’d kneel down and thank you for the lesson?”

He steps closer. The rage steadies him.

“Or is this just another test? Another way to see how far I’ll bend before I break?”

Gi-hun breathes, every word sharper than the last.

“You wanted me to feel something, didn’t you? To feel what you feel. To understand. To justify it. To see the structure under the violence and think – ‘Fuck, maybe he’s right.’”

He sneers.

“Well, congratulations. I do feel something. And it’s disgust.”

A laugh breaks out of him, joyless. 

“You think this is impressive?” he hisses. “The office. The theatrics. The chairs. The dossiers. The speeches. The power.”

Gi-hun’s lips curl.

“You think you know what I want?” he says, quieter now. Bitter. “You think that’s who I am? That I want to be seen. Worshipped. Crowned. Like if you call me beautiful in the right voice, I’ll forget what all this is?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“You don’t know me.”

Still, the mask is still. Then the Front Man takes a step into Gi-hun’s space - but not to intimidate. Just enough to be felt.

“No,” he says softly. “I think you want meaning.”

Gi-hun’s lips part, but nothing comes out.

“And meaning,” the Front Man continues, “is rarely found in comfort. Or escape. Or denial.”

He turns slightly, his hand sweeping out, slow, quiet, impossibly composed.

“This,” he says, gesturing lightly - to the desk, the folders, the polished floor where screams still echo, “this is what meaning costs.”

Gi-hun’s breath comes faster now.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” he snaps. “That this is noble? That this is structure? A moral order to suffering?”

“I tell myself,” the man replies, “that these people were failed long before they came here. That this - for all its brutality - is still more honest than what they came from.”

“I’ve heard this speech before,” Gi-hun cuts in. “Your whole they’ve got nothing left to lose argument.”

“And it remains true.”

Gi-hun laughs. 

“No. No, see, that’s where you lose me.”

He points a trembling finger now, accusation burning in his throat.

“Because you have power. You have money. Influence. If you wanted to help people, you could. Actually help. Clinics. Housing. Education. You could change lives before they fall off the edge.”

“I do those things.”

Gi-hun stills.

“What?”

“Clinics in Gwangju. Women’s shelters in Busan. A scholarship fund in Daegu. I fund addiction recovery centers across Seoul. Anonymously.”

Gi-hun’s jaw works. The words don’t come. Not at first.

“…Then why this?” he finally demands. “Why this too?”

The Front Man doesn’t hesitate.

“Because charity treats symptoms. This addresses the root.”

“What root?”

“Desperation.”

A pause.

“No system in your world truly wants to fix it.” The Front Man continues. “It wants desperation to stay desperate. Because desperate people are easy to exploit. But this-” he gestures towards the desk “-forces choice. Forces consequence. It gives structure to the chaos.”

Gi-hun shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to wake himself up from a hallucination.

“You are so far gone,” he whispers. “You actually believe your own bullshit.”

The Front Man just stands there, silent, composed, as though he’s been watching Gi-hun’s entire unraveling from some safe place beyond consequence. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost reflective.

“It’s almost time.”

Gi-hun blinks, like he misheard. “Time for what?”

A pause. “For the role you chose.”

Gi-hun’s mouth opens to respond, but nothing comes out at first. Then it lands.

Oh. Right. The script. The words.  

That final cruelty, neat and printed and waiting to be recited like a prayer before execution.

He scoffs. “Of course. How poetic. All this just to hand me a mic.”

The Front Man says nothing. He turns instead, walking toward the door with that slow, deliberate precision that makes Gi-hun want to throw something just to hear it break.

“You dropped the document in the main room,” the man says, not looking back. “You’ll need it.

The door closes behind him with a hush, and for a second Gi-hun is left alone in the room. But the silence doesn’t comfort. It just echoes. Everything echoes now. The chairs, the script, the faces on the desk. He doesn’t sit or pace around the room. He just stands in the center like a problem with no solution. 

The door opens again. The Front Man returns, wordless, holding the paper like a relic. He offers it without ceremony.

Gi-hun doesn’t take it.

“No,” he says.

The man stops.

Gi-hun’s voice hardens.

“I’m not doing it.”

The mask tilts again, slight, unreadable.

“You were given a role, Player 456.”

“I never asked for it.”

“And yet it’s yours.”

Gi-hun takes a step back like the paper itself might bite him. “I’m not reading that. Not for you. Not for them. I’m not playing the mouthpiece in your fucking theater.”

The Front Man’s voice doesn’t rise. He just turns the page toward Gi-hun again and taps a line with his gloved finger.

“Shall I remind you what happens if you don’t?”

The words stare back at him.

‘Announcer will deliver the script in full. No deviation, no improvisation.’
‘Unscripted interaction will be considered interference.’
‘Interference will result in elimination of the addressed Player.’

Gi-hun reads them once. Then again. 

The Front Man folds the page back down, but doesn’t hand it over. Just holds it there between them, like a contract.

“Refuse, and they die before the Game even begins.”

Gi-hun just stares at it, eyes unmoving. He doesn’t want to touch it. Doesn’t want its weight in his hands. But he already knows what choice he made - hours ago, the moment he put on the tracksuit and told himself it meant neutrality.

He takes it, slowly. Fingers brushing the edge, reluctant. He unfolds it sharply, and reads the words like they’ve been branded into his mouth.

“‘Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.’”

His voice is stripped bare. Cold and indifferent.

“Stop,” the Front Man says.

Gi-hun exhales through his teeth. “What?”

“Posture.”

“For fuck’s sake-”

“You’re speaking to five people who believe this moment might be the last they ever hear. You cannot read like you’re waiting to be dismissed from class.”

“So you want a little theater with the murder. Got it.”

“I want them to believe you.”

Gi-hun laughs once, hollow. “Believe me? Me?”

The Front Man tilts his head slightly.

“A voice shapes experience,” he says. “So does the body delivering it. If you slouch, they falter. If you shake, they panic. If you tremble, they see it - and they become what you are. You must stand in their place and speak like it isn’t the end of the world. It’s about precision. And precision keeps people alive.”

The Front Man steps forward, into the space behind Gi-hun, quiet and sure.

“Stand up straight.”

“I am standing.”

A gloved hand touches the center of his back. The contact is light, but intentional.

“You’re slouching.”

“I’m not-”

The hand slides lower.

Gi-hun freezes.

The touch shifts – barely - but it lands just above his waist, over the curve of his lower back. Fingertips grazing the edge of the spine like a slow breath.

Gi-hun reacts like he’s been branded. A bolt of heat shoots up from the contact point, through his stomach, then down - hard, immediate, traitorous.

He turns his head slightly. Looks at the man beside him.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The Front Man’s voice is even. “Correcting your center.”

Gi-hun’s skin burns where the glove rests. Still, he doesn’t move.

He hates how his body holds the touch. Hates the way heat spreads. Hates the flicker of breath that catches in his throat, the way his skin remembers.

The hand doesn’t press. 

“Again, from the beginning” the Front Man says.

Gi-hun tears his gaze away and looks back at the script.

“‘Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.’”

The touch lifts.

“Better,” the Front Man says quietly. “Now the rules.”

Gi-hun moves on, his voice steady, firm. Gi-hun knows this game. Every step. Every rule. Every breath. His mouth forms the shape of things buried deep in memory. A childhood game repurposed. Mutated. He explains it like a weapon disguised as play.

The Front Man watches him the whole time. A priest letting the sermon unfurl.

Gi-hun finishes with the last instruction.

Then lowers the paper and turns, bitter.

“Well?” he says, tight. “Is this the part where you clap?”

The Front Man doesn’t answer. Just takes the paper from his hands.

“Now say it from memory.”

Gi-hun glares. “Why?”

“Because if you forget on the field, there’s no second chance.”

Gi-hun scoffs.

“Right. Because the thing that’s going to kill them is a misplaced preposition.”

Still, he turns and faces forward.He takes a breath.

The Front Man lifts the folded page, holds it loosely in one hand, tracking each word.

Gi-hun speaks. This time from memory.

“‘Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.’”

His voice is steady, clear. He continues.

“…Each Player must play indep-”

“Participate,” the Front Man corrects. Immediate. Quiet.

Gi-hun corrects himself without pausing. “-must participate independently.”

His jaw is tight, but his voice stays firm.

“No teams are…allowed.”

“Permitted,” the Front Man says again, without judgment.

“No teams are permitted. The Game will be played in full until one Player emerges as the final Winner.”

The heat from that earlier touch is still radiating along his back. A slow echo.

“Victory may be achieved by completing the Game or by eliminating all other Players.”

He hesitates - just for a moment - but then the words return.

“Interference of any kind will result in immediate disqualification.”

A breath. The last line.

“You may begin when the signal is given.”

The words settle in the room like smoke after a shot.

“Again,” the Front Man says.

Gi-hun’s head snaps up. “Seriously?”

“Third time’s the charm.”

Gi-hun looks away. His jaw is tight, clenching hard enough to make his teeth ache.

Then he starts.

“‘Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.’”

His voice doesn’t shake.

The rest follows. The words roll forward, steady, precise. He hesitates only once - on ‘emerges,’ of all things - but catches himself. No corrections needed this time. No interruptions. No gloved hands at the base of his spine.

Just him. The voice. The rhythm. The script.

When he reaches the end, he doesn’t look up. But he can feel the man’s eyes on him. Not just watching - listening.

Then-

“Excellent.”

The word lands softer than he expects.

“Truly.” A pause. “You did well.”

Gi-hun’s shoulders flinch. It’s not just the praise. It’s the way it’s said, without irony or cruelty. Like it’s real.

His mouth is dry. He wants to stay angry. Wants to keep the heat between them warped and hateful. But something in him flickers at that voice, like an old wound recognizing the hand that opened it.

He turns his face away. Tries to swallow it down.

Behind him, the Front Man moves. The sound of a drawer sliding open cuts the quiet.

When Gi-hun turns, the man is holding something small. Two objects.

He holds one out to Gi-hun - an earpiece.

“For guidance,” he says.

Gi-hun takes it - slowly, suspicious - and turns it between his fingers.

“What, so you can keep correcting my grammar during the slaughter?”

“No,” the Front Man says. “So I can direct you if needed.”

The second object is a walkie - sleek, black, unmarked. He clips it to the inside of his coat.

“And where will you be?” Gi-hun asks, eyes narrowing.

The Front Man straightens. Answers plainly. “With the VIPs.”

Gi-hun’s face darkens.

“Behind a screen again? Back in that grotesque room with the masks and the gold and the champagne and the monsters watching people die?”

The Front Man shakes his head.

“No. I’ll be watching from the private observation deck.”

Gi-hun frowns. “The what?”

“A chamber that overlooks the Red Light, Green Light Field directly. No screens. No delay.

Gi-hun looks at him.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

The Front Man studies Gi-hun for a moment before answering.

“No. But it may.”

Gi-hun doesn’t respond. But the truth is that it does make him feel better. And that’s what he hates.

He slips the earpiece into place.

The script is gone now, folded away. The paper, the page, the mask of control - absent.

But the voice remains. His own. And he knows that in a few minutes, that voice will echo across a killing field. It will mark the beginning of something irreversible.

And somewhere just above him, behind the bulletproof glass, he’ll be watched.

By him.

And that, against all logic, is the only thing keeping his hands from shaking.

 

 

 

The blindfold is torn away.

Gi-hun blinks hard against the sudden brightness, breath hitching as his eyes struggle to adjust. The sky above him is unnaturally clear - there’s not a single cloud, not a single bird. Just endless, painted cerulean.

He drags his gaze back down.

The Red Light, Green Light field stretches in front of him like a wound that hasn’t closed. Flat, wide, endless. A dust-colored stretch of death beneath that immaculate sky, perfect lines in every direction.

The Triangle Guards are already in position, rifles tight in their arms, bodies still as statues.

Gi-hun’s eyes trace past them to the far end of the arena.

The Doll.

She stands there, just like before. That enormous head, those pigtails, the fixed plastic gaze that somehow still manages to see. To judge. Her eyes are pointed straight at him, and he swears that for a second they narrow. She’s watching him. Measuring him. Remembering him.

He forces himself to look away from her.

The Game set is unchanged. Trees that aren’t trees. A house that isn’t a house. The horizon is flat, sharp, painted. A lie so large it might swallow him whole.

His hands twitch. He looks up, scanning the edge of the arena - and stops.

There. At the top of the field. The sky doesn’t end - it fractures. A glass wall, thin and shimmering, embedded seamlessly into the illusion. He can’t see through it.  But he knows. Knows like he knows his own heartbeat. The Front Man is there. The VIPs are there. Watching. Like always.

Gi-hun breathes in. Just once. Then moves.

The script said: ‘Announcer must stand on the Central Line.’

And so he does.

His boots land on the marked stripe. Dead center. Back facing the Game. Face to the doors. Standing like a sentinel.

And then - the voice in his ear. Intimate. Soothing. Like a promise pressed to the skin.

“You will do well, Player 456.”

It sinks into Gi-hun like heat, blooming under his ribs. Like reassurance. Like prophecy. Like a secret only two people know.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He stares ahead, heart pounding a little too fast.

A mechanical hiss cuts through the silence.

The doors. Twin slabs of steel unlock with a hydraulic screech and pull slowly open.

First come the Guards. Four Triangles, rifles steady. One Square in the center.

Then - the Players.

The O-Players come first, strong, focused. Step by step, they emerge into the sunlight, blinking but unflinching.

And then, the last two.

Hyun-ju. Jun-hee.

Hyun-ju is holding her - no, supporting her. Her arms around her waist, her shoulder beneath Jun-hee’s collapsing frame.

And Jun-hee - God. She looks like a ghost.

Her hair is soaked, clinging to her face. Her skin is the wrong color - drained, grayish, glowing faintly with fever. Her shirt is stiff with dried blood - hers, and not hers. There are stains down her thighs, old and new, and her steps are barely steps at all.

She stumbles forward, teeth clenched. Each movement is a war.

She gave birth not long ago. Gave life, and now walks forward into the promise of death.

Gi-hun’s mind fractures under the weight of it.

He wants to run to her. Wants to scream. Wants to burn this whole place down.

But-

‘Emotional tone discouraged. Maintain authoritative presence.’

So he says nothing.

Not when they get closer.

Not when Hyun-ju looks up and her eyes lock on his.

She freezes. Stops so abruptly one of the Triangle Guards nearly stumbles. She stares. Disbelief flooding her face like a storm.

“Gi-hun?”

Her voice is a breath, then a flood. She’s shaking. He sees it. Hears it.

“Gi-hun. You’re- you’re alive?”

Jun-hee lifts her head and sees him. Something breaks behind her eyes.

But Gi-hun doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer. His face stays stone.

The O-Players murmur. One - bolder than the others - narrows his eyes.

“I knew it. Fucking knew you were one of them.”

Gi-hun says nothing.

Because the line is still beneath him. And the Doll is still behind him. And the world is still watching.

The Guards move again.

They escort the five - only five - into the center of the field. Until they’re around three meters from him. No closer. No further. Perfect spacing. Perfect control.

Jun-hee leans against Hyun-ju, barely standing.

Hyun-ju doesn’t take her eyes off Gi-hun.

“You were dead. They said you - during the rebellion - God, Gi-hun, we thought-”

But he’s already speaking.

“Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.”

His voice doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s steadier than it should be. That frightens him more than if it shook.

“Each Player must participate independently. No teams are permitted.”

Each word is recited, not spoken. As if it’s been programmed into his throat.

Hyun-ju takes a step forward. Her hand is still around Jun-hee’s waist, but her eyes are cutting into him now, uncertain, unsettled.

“What are you wearing?” she asks. “You look so thin. You look - God, you look like you’ve been starved.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t acknowledge her at all. The fabric against his skin feels colder now. Too clean. His coat, immaculate, tailored to erase everything soft about him. The perfect white of it mocks the blood he knows is coming.

“The Game will be played in full until one Player emerges as the final Winner.”

Hyun-ju tries again. Louder this time. Her voice cracking.

“You look sick. Oh, Gi-hun - what have they done to you?”

“Interference of any kind will result in-”

“Gi-hun.”

That voice is softer. 

Jun-hee.

She doesn’t raise it, but it lands heavier than anything else has today. Something about the way she says his name - like she knows it still belongs to someone beneath the suit.

“Please. Stop.”

He tries to say the line again.

“Interference of-”

But his throat closes around it.

“Did you see him?” she asks, stepping forward. She’s barely upright, but somehow she moves like she’s being pulled forward by something heavier than her own pain. “My baby. Is he alive?”

His mouth opens. Nothing comes. He looks straight ahead. Not at her. Not at anyone.

Because he knows that if he sees her face, he won’t be able to finish the line.

“Did he cry?” she asks. “Was he warm? Was he held?”

His eyes close. His jaw tightens.

Don't look.

The Front Man’s voice crackles in his ear again.

“Remember the rules.”

He doesn’t react.

Because Jun-hee is moving. She pulls away from Hyun-ju - who grabs her, tries to hold her back, whispering.

“No. Jun-hee, no.”

But Jun-hee shrugs her off like gravity has chosen a new center.

She stumbles forward. The Guards twitch. One of them begins to raise a rifle, as a warning.

Jun-hee’s hands clutch at Gi-hun’s coat, the immaculate white fabric that until now had seemed so far removed from death - now already stained with her touch.

Her voice cracks.

“I just want to know if he is okay. Please.”

Gi-hun holds still. Forces stillness. Stillness is safety. Stillness is silence. Stillness is what kept him alive when he had no name, no light, no food, no calendar to tell him how long he’d been surviving under a mask instead of a sky.

But this girl - this girl who is barely a woman, and yet already a mother, already hollowed out by something that never should have touched her - she is begging.

And she is not begging like the others did, not with a scream or bargain. She is begging the way only a mother can: with the stillness of someone holding their breath for another heart, with the ache of instinct older than language.

He tells himself not to look. He tells himself not to remember. But memory crashes into him like a door kicked in.

The baby was warm. So warm. Small and impossibly loud and real, like he hadn’t yet learned what kind of world it had been born into. He had held it. Briefly. Gently. Like it might shatter if he breathed too hard. And something in him - something that should’ve been long dead - had stirred.

That stirring now becomes a scream.

Because Jun-hee will die. That’s certain. That’s baked into the architecture of this place.

But if she dies not knowing - if she dies with that question still lodged in her throat - then that is something deeper than murder. That is erasure. That is cruelty masquerading as procedure.

That is a wound that will not die with her. It will live in him. Forever.

He hesitates. Because saying yes would mean choosing her death with his own hands. It would mean being the reason, the trigger - not the system, not the gun, but him.

And yet, what if it was only a breath?

A shift in posture. A twitch of gravity. A signal so small even the Doll might miss it. So gentle the Front Man might dismiss it. So quiet it couldn’t possibly be a betrayal.

That’s the lie he tells himself as he finally looks at her in the eyes and gives it.

A nod.

Not even that, really. The barest tilt of his head. A microexpression carved into stillness. A small act of kindness, barely visible unless you were looking directly at his heart.

No one would see. Not the Guards. Not the Players. Not the Front Man.

But Jun-hee sees it instantly. And her face changes.

No burst of light. No dramatics. Just - softness. A loosening, like something inside her finally exhaled. Her shoulders fall. Her knees nearly give. Her hands press to her mouth, trembling.

Thank you,” she breathes, again and again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank-“

Hyun-ju screams.

And then Gi-hun sees it.

The blur of pink just behind Jun-hee’s shoulder. A Guard raising their rifle. A twitch.

The gunshot is not loud.

It is clean. The sort of sound that doesn’t echo - it removes. A subtraction disguised as a sound. There is no fanfare. No final swell.

Jun-hee’s body jerks and falls forward.

Into him.

For a second, Gi-hun doesn’t realize what’s happened.

He just catches her out of reflex. Like you would catch a vase sliding from a counter, or a child toppling from a swing. He takes her weight, easily. So easily. She’s light. God, she’s light. Why is she so light?

His arms lock around her instinctively. Automatically. He doesn’t even look at her face - because he’s already pulling her close, already moving to tell her “It’s okay” or “You’re alright” or “I’ve got you,” but the words don’t come, and she doesn’t answer, and her head slides against his chest in a way that’s wrong.

There’s something wet on his neck. Something warm.

And then - his eyes find it.

The hole in her temple. Small. Exact. Efficient.

And everything inside him goes still.

His tracksuit - once white, once immaculate, once preserved from every drop of blood in this place - stains.

A single stripe at first. Just beneath her hairline. A flower blooming against his collar. Then more. Down his chest. Between their bodies. A red flood, spreading faster than he can understand. The white absorbs it all, hungry, greedy. 

Red. Red. Red.

"No-"

It’s a whisper. Pathetic. Pointless.

He pulls her back,  just far enough to see her face.

Her eyes are open.

God. God, her eyes are still open.

"No – nonono, please - Jun-hee…JUN-HEE-"

His voice cracks, then shatters.

And he screams.

A raw, animal sound. It tears through his throat, scorched and choking and broken. The kind of scream you don’t learn. The kind that lives in your marrow, waiting for something unspeakable to give it a name.

“JUN-HEE!”

He sinks to his knees like the earth beneath him gave out.

Her body slumps into him fully now. 

The back of her skull is sticky. Her blood is everywhere - in his hair, on his hands, soaking through his knees, seeping into the white.

He cradles her like a daughter. His fingers tremble against her face, trying to close her eyes, but they won't stay shut. Her lips twitch slightly - just a trick of death. A final mockery.

He rocks. Not on purpose. His body just starts doing it. Forward and back, forward and back, holding her tighter each time, as if the motion could rewind time or undo the moment or trick God into looking away.

"I did this. I did this."

He doesn’t know if he says it aloud. He doesn’t care.

He killed her.

His nod did.

He touched the chair and then he nodded and now she’s gone.

Behind him - screaming.

The Guards step in.

Everything is movement. Shouting. Arms grabbing. Dust rising. The sound of boots slamming into the earth. Triangle masks moving in like insects.

Hyun-ju is thrashing against the Guards. Screaming his name, screaming Jun-hee’s. Her voice splits in half, turns raw. She’s not forming words anymore - just noise. Fury. Grief.

The other Players flinch, backpedal, faces white.

A voice crackles in his ear - The Front Man, saying something urgent, clipped, insistent. But it’s all static in the blur. A language he no longer speaks. 

His head is bowed. His arms wrapped around a corpse. His lips at her temple, his voice a broken metronome repeating something no one else can understand.

He’s saying her name like it’s a ritual. A prayer. A confession.

"Jun-hee. Jun-hee. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

He presses his forehead to hers.

It’s just him and her now.

The others blur into static. The world beyond her body has no depth. The noise, the movement - none of it matters. Only the silence between her breaths, which no longer come.

She’s getting heavier. Colder. He feels it in her hands first. The tips of her fingers hardening, losing that human warmth. Her skin sinking into stillness. Her mouth still open. Her blood now seeping more than spilling.

The sounds return slowly.

Boots. Voices. The shuffle of order trying to reassert itself.

Two pair of hands reach for her body.

Gi-hun reacts before he thinks.

He snarls. Grabs her tighter, pulls her in against him like they’re trying to steal what’s left of her.

“Don’t touch her!” he barks, and it’s not just volume - it’s fury. Pure, uncut. “Get away from her! Get the fuck away from her!”

The Pink Guards pause. Hesitate. One glances to another.

Then-

The crowd shifts. Like water reacting to a predator entering it.

A figure approaches. Different. Black. But not the Front Man.

The Guards part instinctively, stepping back without being told to. Even the ones who’d been reaching for Jun-hee recoil.

The Black Square Guard walks into the circle without hurry. Authority, distilled. One hand rests near his belt.

Gi-hun sees it. The revolver. Strapped to his side, lazily. Like it’s never going to be used. Like it’s just for show.

His breath catches.

The Square stops two paces away. 

“Player 456,” he says.

Gi-hun looks up. Blinks once. His eyes are red-rimmed and shining. His lips are cracked open. His face is streaked.

The Black Guard doesn’t flinch.

“Release the body.”

Gi-hun blinks. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, his fingers loosen.

He lays Jun-hee down - carefully, reverently, like she might break even more. Then he stands, jerky, unsteady.

The Guards move - rifles raising, stepping forward - but the Square lifts a hand and stills them.

Gi-hun looks down at Jun-hee once again. Her face slack now. Her lashes sticky. Her lips still parted from the word she didn’t finish.

She is cold.

She is cold.

And that’s when something snaps.

He looks up. Sees the Square Guard’s revolver again.  

And without thinking or pausing, he lunges.

He grabs the Square by the front of his uniform, yanking him forward with more strength than he knows he still has. His hand goes to the revolver, tears it from its holster, clicks off the safety, and shoves the barrel against the side of the Square’s mask, hard enough to tilt the man’s head.

It happens fast.

The Triangle Guards raise their rifles again. They’re shouting, uncertain. Stiff with indecision. No one moves. They don’t know what to do now. This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t supposed to happen here.

“DROP IT!”

“Step away!”

“PUT THE GUN DOWN!”

Gi-hun doesn't move.

He’s panting, mouth open, teeth bared. The revolver is pressed to the Square’s head. His hand doesn’t shake.

“Stop the killing!” he shouts. “STOP THE FUCKING GAMES!”

No one breathes.

“I swear to God,” he says, voice trembling, “I will blow his fucking head off.”

And he means it. He means it.

He sees them hesitate. Not because they’re afraid for the Square. But because they don’t know what protocol says when a man like this stops caring what happens next.

In his ear, a voice - cold, controlled - flares to life. The Front Man.

“Player 456. You’re violating the protocol. Step back.”

Gi-hun laughs. A sharp, guttural bark.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” he growls. “Now you’re fucking concerned?”

The voice says something else, clipped and unreadable.

Gi-hun interrupts him.

“No,” he spits. “You don’t get to pull the strings now. You wanted a fucking show? Here it is.”

His eyes sweep across the Guards. The Players. The Doll, still as ever.

“You want to make me a villain? You already did. I already killed her. So don’t you test me. Don’t you dare fucking test me.”

The Square says nothing. Gi-hun can feel the man's breath slow beneath the revolver. A quiet compliance.

And for a moment - only a moment - it feels like power. Like control. Like maybe, just maybe, holding this man at the end of a barrel might tilt the balance. Might change the Game.

But then something colder sinks in.

What is this mask, really?

This man is a high rank. Important. But not singular. Someone trained him. Someone dressed him. Someone can replace him.

Gi-hun sees it so clearly now. The futility of it.

Even if he kills the Square, the Game doesn’t end. They’ll step over his corpse. Replace him with another suit, another voice, another mask. The wheel won’t stop spinning. It will devour this man and keep going like it never happened.

It’s not him they need. It never was.

The voice returns in his ear.

The Front Man. This time, urgent.

“Player 456. You don’t understand-”

But that’s the thing. He does.

He can hear it now - not just the words, but the change in them. The strain.

The disruption. The Front Man isn’t giving instructions. He’s responding. Reacting. For the first time, rattled.

And it clicks.

Who here isn’t replaceable?

Not the Guards. Not the Players. Not the man he is pointing the gun at, coughing behind the mask. The Square will be dust by morning and someone else will speak in his tone, wear his steps, reload his gun.

But Gi-hun?

Gi-hun has been watched. Followed. Fed and tested and dressed like something to be studied. He’s been a project. A theory. A knife the system wanted to see turned inward.

He knows it now. Feels it like heat beneath the skin.

The Front Man doesn’t want him dead. 

And for the first time in what feels like years, he smiles.

It’s not a kind smile. It is not sane.

He steps back from the Square, slowly, and lets him go. Lets him scramble back into the ring of pink Guards.

And then he turns the gun on himself.

No announcement. No performance.

Just a slow, fluid motion - up, to the temple, click. The metal rests just beneath his sweat-drenched hair, shaking slightly against the bone.

He’s done this before.

Not here. But weeks ago. In the flickering room of the motel, when the Recruiter put the revolver on the table and asked him to play a Game with him. He remembers the weight of the chamber. The hum of silence right before a trigger. Back then, it had felt like theater.

Now it feels like release.

Gi-hun doesn't hesitate. But his breath shakes as he says-

"Call it off. End the Games. If you don’t stop it, right now, I swear I will pull this trigger and put a hole through your final fucking investment."

There’s a pause. Static in the earpiece. Then the voice.

"Player 456. Don’t do this."

It’s him, distant, controlled. But there’s a weight beneath the command, something faltering. Gi-hun hears it. And it makes him laugh.

"You made me into this," he spits. His voice is louder now. Crackling through the arena. “You made me a fucking narrator to a massacre. A killer. So don’t act like you care now."

Footsteps. Fast. Almost a run. He hears them through the earpiece. Sharp, methodical strikes on concrete. Coming closer.

"You’re not thinking clearly," the Front Man says, and the cadence is tighter now, like he is trying to contain something.

"This is the clearest I’ve ever thought," Gi-hun snarls. "No more bodies. No more screaming. No more children born into Games they didn’t fucking sign up for. You want to win? Fine. Then end it. Right now. Or I take your prize off the table."

The gun doesn’t move.

"This won’t change anything."

"No?" His eyes burn. His body shakes, but the gun stays pressed. "Then why are you running? Why is your voice breaking?"

The silence that follows is louder than anything.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Hyun-ju break. Her voice cuts through the chaos, wild with grief.

"Gi-hun! No! Please!"

He doesn’t turn. He can’t. His vision is tunneling.

"This is it," he mutters to the voice in his head. To the voice running toward him. "You already took my life. My fucking soul. This is all I have left to give. So unless you want me dead, unless you want your little project to put a bullet through his skull on live broadcast, then say it. Say the goddamn words. End the Games."

The footsteps stop.

Then, not through the earpiece but in the air, low and ragged:

"Gi-hun."

He freezes. The world drops away.

That wasn’t the voice of a god behind glass. That wasn’t the cold operator he’d come to hate.

That was him. In person. In pain.

It’s not that he’s surprised. It’s that the moment was never supposed to happen. The Front Man had built an entire system on erasure - on the removal of names, on the turning of people into numbers, needs into threats, grief into statistics. Gi-hun had been refiled, reprogrammed, reduced.

So he turns, slowly.

And there he is.

The Front Man. At the edge of the arena. No longer a silhouette behind glass, no longer a voice in his head - a man, walking toward him. Hands raised. Unarmed.

“Gi-hun," he says again.

And the second time, it nearly brings Gi-hun to his knees.

The gun shakes. His arm falters.

The Front Man’s coat breathes with each step. And though the mask hides everything, Gi-hun can hear it in his breathing. The restraint. The urgency. The fear he can’t quite silence.

Gi-hun hears his own voice from some distant place, small and afraid.

"You said it." His grip loosens. Just slightly. "You said my name."

And that’s when he realizes: he was waiting for this. All along. Through the torture, through the silence, through the unbearable performance of survival. He had been waiting for this man - not to stop the Games, not to confess - but to say his name. To remind him that he exists beyond the number. Beyond the role.

There are tears now. He can feel them carving down his face, hot and bitter.

He does not know what his body is doing until it has already moved.

His arm, still holding the gun, turns. The barrel drags away from his own skull in a slow, devastating arc - toward the man now only a breath away.

He points it at the Front Man’s chest. Right where the heart should be.

And the world holds its breath.

The Front Man does not flinch. He simply stops and allows it. The mask reflects nothing.

Gi-hun stares down the sightline of the gun, and doesn’t see power. Doesn’t see justice.

He sees a man he should have hated enough to kill.

And he does hate him.

He hates in the places that ache long after the bruises heal. Hates the shape of him, the calm weight of him, the sound of his breath on this blood-drenched stage. Hates him for the deaths. For the silences. For making Gi-hun feel seen in the quiet after every killing.

But most of all, he hates him for saying his name. That unbearable tenderness in the syllables. That softness, like he was something worth calling back.

Gi-hun’s arms shake. The gun doesn’t lower.

He could do it.

Could pull the trigger. Could tear open the black fabric and ask the bullet what a heart looks like after it orchestrates thousands of deaths.

He could end him.

But instead, his voice breaks.

“Why now?” he whispers. “Why my name now?”

There’s a pause.

“Because it was yours.”

Gi-hun exhales like it hurts.

“And I took it,” the man continues, “But I couldn't let you die without giving it back.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes.

And in the dark behind his lids, he sees the man he used to be.

The father who promised more than he could give.

The son who couldn’t carry the weight of his mother’s hopes.

The friend who tried to shield others from his own wreckage.

And when the Front Man answered him, when his name was returned to him like a stolen relic, he felt it - the return of everything he was. All the pieces of himself that had been discarded in the dust of this place, the parts of him that had slipped away when he let the Games swallow him whole.

He opens his eyes.

The gun is still raised.

And the man before him - his executioner, his savior, his captor, his mirror - takes one step forward.

Another.

Until the barrel presses against the center of his chest.

“It’s alright,” the Front Man murmurs.

A lie, perhaps. But it lands like mercy.

Gi-hun doesn’t move at first. The gun remains suspended between them, trembling, reluctant - his last thread of defiance. His arm aches. His chest feels caged. He wants to let go, but doesn't know how.

But then a hand slowly raises. The Front Man's, gloved and steady, reaches forward and closes gently around his fingers. Not to force, but to offer stillness.

And that’s when Gi-hun exhales - long, ragged, broken - and lets the barrel fall. His fingers uncurl with agonizing slowness, like petals loosening after a storm.

And then – he falls.

Collapses forward, into the black of that coat, into the man who built the maze and led him through it. His face finds the curve of the man’s neck. His hands grip fabric like a drowning man clinging to the ocean floor.

And he weeps.

He weeps like there is no language for the kind of sorrow he carries. Like everything inside him has liquified and is trying to pour out through his throat.

The Front Man wraps his arms around him.

Not as a leader. Not as a god.

Just as a man.

And he says again, soft, near the temple.

“You’re okay.”

And Gi-hun sobs harder. Because it isn’t. He isn’t. And he never will be.

But God, he wants to believe it.

He wants to believe that someone could burn him alive and still be the one to put out the flames.

And the part of him that remembers who he was before this place - before the blood and the silence and the numbers and the masks - wants to stay.

Wants to stay wrapped in the arms of the man who took everything, because at least in that loss, something feels.

They stay there. A silhouette of contradiction. The victim and the engineer. The broken and the breaker. The one who ran the Games and the one who bled for them.

Gi-hun clutches the coat tighter.

And the Front Man does not let go.

Notes:

I know.

I KNOW.

I did it again.

I’m so sorry for the ending. Truly. For killing beloved characters (again). For making Gi-hun suffer (again). For dragging all of us to emotional hell and then leaving you there. With love.

Please know - no one is safe. Not even me. I cried writing this. Then I reread it and cried again. So we’re all in this together, okay?

If you’ve made it this far - thank you for letting me break your heart a little more each time.

As always, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated!

Bye for now!

Chapter 8

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!

Hope this new update finds you well - and by "well," I mean emotionally stable enough to survive another 15k+ words of angst. Yes. Oops. I did it again. I'm not even sorry at this point.

Before we dive in, a quick confession: while rewatching Squid Game for the hundredth time (for, you know, research), I noticed something in Season 2, Episode 1 that rocked me to my very core: it says two years later after the airport phone call. Which would mean it's technically been three years since the first Games, not four.

…Which is awkward, because I’ve been confidently (read: incorrectly) using four years later as my canonical timeline. To those who noticed and politely let it slide: you're the real MVPs. To those who didn’t notice: you’re also MVPs. I love you all, seriously.

To atone for my sins, I went back and edited the previous chapters to reflect three years instead of four. But then I had a thought...why did I think it was four years? So I did some very serious research (Squid Game Wiki), and apparently the Games in Season 1 happened in 2020, around June-ish? And Season 2 picks up in 2024, just after Gi-hun’s birthday (October 31st).

So... by math… that’s four years, right? …RIGHT?? If anyone wants to help me unravel this Squid Time Paradox, my inbox is open.

Now, onto more important things: I bring you another one of my Moments Musicaux™ for this chapter. While there’s no music in the narrative, there’s a very specific piece that just fits with a certain scene. You’ll know when it happens - I’ve marked it with a physical line break in the chapter. That’s your cue. Feel free to click this link and let the music ruin you further.

I’ll explain the why of it all in the end notes.

Okay, okay, that’s enough rambling from me. Go forth. Enjoy the chapter!

Gi-hun doesn’t know where his body ends and the Front Man begins.

That should scare him. That should disgust him. A sane man would pull away. A good man wouldn’t want this.

But Gi-hun hasn’t been either of those things in a very long time.

His arms are wrapped around the Front Man’s body like he’s trying to crush him, like if he holds tighter the world will stop spinning, like he can press the grief out through pressure alone.

And the Front Man doesn’t resist. He allows it. Welcomes it. One hand maps Gi-hun’s back in long, steady strokes - memorizing him, taming him. The other rests on his nape.

Right there.

That place of animal weakness. That soft, defenseless spot where predators bite to kill, where executioners press the blade. That is where the Front Man’s hand settles. Not with cruelty, but with care.

Is this forgiveness?

No, forgiveness implies innocence regained, purity restored. No, this isn’t absolution - it’s recognition. A permission not to be saved, but to persist. To remain ruined, and still be held.

And if this is ruin, it is the sweetest hell he has ever tasted.

The Front Man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His silence is a language, and Gi-hun has become fluent in its grammar. A pause that means stay. A breath that means yes. A hand that says I see you. I accept you. Even now.

Gi-hun leans in harder, burying his face in the dark of the coat like it might erase the world behind him. The field. The blood. Her body.

He should be thinking of the others. The ones he swore to protect. The promises he made, the names he carried like weights.

But now? The names are gone.

Even hers.

He forgets her voice, her pleading eyes, and the way she smiled at him in that last, awful moment as if she saw something good in him.

All he remembers is the hand at his nape. The pressure. The claim. He would let it break him, if it wanted.

Because the truth is - he wants to be broken. He’s tired of holding himself upright. Of pretending there’s still something worth saving. That man - the good one - died the first time he walked off a Game floor.

What’s left is what the Front Man is holding.

And somehow, impossibly, the masked man sees it all - the blood still painted across his throat, the filth of murder soaking into his collar - and holds him closer. As if the violence makes him more deserving, not less.

And no one ever held him. Not like this.

Not his ex-wife, who touched him out of obligation and duty, their bodies moving out of rhythm like they both knew love had already fled. Not the women who came before and after, soft hands and open legs he poured himself into. They touched him for pleasure. For pity. For escape.

But this?

This is not escape. This is not pity.

This is purpose.

This is someone saying: I know what you are. And I’m not letting go.

He could scream. Could shove, could spit, could tear at the mask like it holds the answer to every ruined thing inside him.

But he doesn’t. He presses in - greedy, starving, needy in a way he never let himself be.

And it’s this - this godless tenderness, this quiet, merciful violence of being held - that shatters him. Not the Games. Not the blood. Not the kill.

No - it’s this fucking hug.

If the price of being held like this is the death of his resistance, then he’ll surrender it. He’ll watch the last flickers of the hero crumble to ash. He never wore that skin well anyway.

He’ll strip it off. Inch by inch. Identity, morality, shame. All of it.

If the price is loyalty, he'll pay in full. If it’s blood, he’s already bled. If it’s the mask  - the white one - he’ll wear it proudly, side by side with the man in black.

He’d build himself in the Front Man’s image - bone by bone, breath by breath - until they moved in sync, until Gi-hun’s shadow followed his perfectly.

White beside black. Another mask. Another ghost. He’d stand at his side and never look back. Rule if he asked. Kill if he whispered. Anything. Just for this. Just to keep being held like this.

The thought is so fucked, so filthy and so beautiful it rips a sound from him - a sound that’s part sob, part gasp, though he wouldn’t know which.

The Front Man’s hand on his back stills - just for a second. Then moves again, slower now. Softer. Like he heard it. Like he knows.

“Gi-hun,” the Front Man says again, quiet this time.

His name burns. And blesses. And brands.

It shouldn’t matter. But fuck, it does. That voice is the only thing tethering him to reality. The only thing making him want to stay.

He could live inside that sound. He could die inside that sound.

And just as the thought finishes unfurling in his mind - he sees it.

From the corner of his eye, two Circle Guards. And between them, the weight they carry: a long black coffin tied with a ribbon so cruel it might as well be a joke.

The spell shatters like glass beneath a boot.

The corruption - the touch, the whispered name, the warmth wrapping around his grief like it could seduce it into silence - it vanishes.

Jun-hee.

Her name returns like blood rushing back into a limb long numbed. It hurts. It scalds.

His breath goes ragged again. The sob that rises in his throat has no shape, no direction - it just is. His fingers unclench from the Front Man’s coat as if waking from a fever. The heat of that embrace drains away. He’s cold now. Cold where it mattered most.

He steps back. Just one inch.

And the Front Man lets him go.

Gi-hun turns toward the coffin.

The Guards are lifting her. Indifferently. Efficiently. The way you’d lift furniture after a house fire. Limbs swing loosely. Her head lolls like a broken flower. Her spine curls with the softness of death.

Bodies are heavy, but cadavers are thoughtless. They obey gravity with a kind of cruelty the living can’t imitate.

He watches them place her inside the coffin. One of the Guards adjusts her arms to fold them over her chest, and the way they do it - casual, practiced - makes Gi-hun want to scream.

He doesn’t.

Because murderers don’t get to scream.

Instead, he takes a step forward. Then another. He doesn’t speak or think. His body just moves, like grief has pulled the string for him.

The Black Square Guard sees it. He moves slightly, just enough to block him. Gloved hand raised.

“Step back,” he says. Measured. Final.

But before Gi-hun can obey - before he can even decide if he will obey - that voice returns.

“No,” the Front Man says. “Let him.”

Gi-hun freezes. Not at the words themselves, but at the weight of them. At the authority behind them. The way they bend reality.

He turns instinctively, eyes locking onto the Front Man. And then, slowly, onto the Square Guard.

The Square’s hand hangs in the air a moment longer before lowering, gloved fingers flexing slightly, just enough to betray his hesitation. Gi-hun sees the tilt of the mask, the slow angle of the Guard's mask turning fully toward the Front Man. There's no face visible, no eyes, but somehow Gi-hun can feel it - the cold, incredulous assessment, the unspoken disdain for his superior who, for some unfathomable reason, grants mercy to someone so unworthy.

Gi-hun knows, with absolute certainty, that if it were up to this man, he'd have been discarded long ago. A bullet in his skull, a quick end to an inconvenient anomaly.

Because that's all he is – trash.

Just like the Recruiter said, back in the motel, when everything was still a game and nothing had started yet: "A piece of trash who got lucky and made it out of the dumptser".

And now this - this hug, this voice that called him by name, this impossible softness. It’s an insult to the rules, a violation of the cold logic of this hell.

Gi-hun can almost hear the Square Guard’s silent accusation: What makes you special enough to be held, to be protected?

The answer lodges in his throat, acidic and sharp: nothing. Nothing but blood, nothing but guilt. Nothing but the ruin of himself.

Gi-hun turns his eyes away from the Square. He doesn’t want to see it. The confirmation.

He just looks down. At her. Jun-hee.

The girl who was brave enough to give birth in a place built to erase her. The girl who asked for nothing but to know her son was okay. 

He steps forward again, chest heavy, until he reaches the coffin. He kneels beside it. His hands tremble as he looks down into her face.

Her eyes are still open.

Her skin is the color of silence - drained, soft, no longer trying to belong to the living.  Her lips are slightly parted, like her body hadn’t accepted it was time to stop speaking. Her hair clings damply to her cheek, dark and matted with sweat.

He sees her.

But his mind plays a trick on him.

For one breathless, soul-destroying second - he sees Ga-yeong. His daughter. The slope of her nose. The shape of her mouth. The unbearable smallness of her.

He sees the girl who used to ask him if the moon followed cars.

He sees her smile.

And he sees her dead.

Tears blur his vision, but he doesn’t blink them away. They belong here. This grief is earned.

He failed Jun-hee.

Her baby will grow up without a father. And now, without a mother. Maybe without a name. Maybe without a story.

He brushes a thumb softly over Jun-hee's cold cheekbone.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking around the words, jagged and bleeding. The apology is pitifully insufficient, grotesquely late. A killer’s hollow repentance.

He presses her eyelids shut gently, lingering for one extra moment, as if that tenderness could erase the violence that put her here.

He rises, stumbling slightly, as the Guards close the coffin. The sound reverberates inside him - a deep, final thud echoing through his bones.

Gi-hun watches numbly as the coffin is carried away, ribbon fluttering mockingly, until it disappears entirely. And then his gaze shifts, instinctively, to Hyun-ju.

She’s still being held by the Guards, but her body is stone now, frozen mid-struggle. Her face is soaked with tears, but her expression... her expression is what shatters him.

She’s watching him. Her face is a battleground - fury carved into her brow, confusion in the twitch of her mouth, fear glinting in her eyes.

But worse than any of it - worse than the rage, worse than the disbelief - is the pity.

Fuck, the pity.

He could take her hating him. He wants her to. He wants her to spit at him, to scream and curse and lunge for his throat. That would make sense. That would feel earned.

But instead, she’s looking at him like he’s broken. Like he’s too far gone to hate properly.

Like she’s already begun grieving him, too.

She saw the hug.

She saw it. Saw the way he clung. Saw the hand on the back of his neck. Saw his body lean in like it was starving for something foul.

She saw the gun, too, in his hand. Pointed not at the Guards, not at the Doll, but at the Front Man. The black. The one behind everything.

She knows. She knows. He had the shot. And he didn’t take it.

He could’ve pulled the trigger. Maybe it wouldn’t have ended the Games. Maybe the wheel would keep spinning. But he would’ve torn the face off the machine. He could have made a crack. Could have chased that crack with fire.

But no. He had mercy. Had need. Had… longing.

And Hyun-ju saw it.

Their eyes lock, and the storm of it - the recognition, the horror, the judgment - crushes him.

He looks away like a coward. His eyes focus on the filthy, blood-spattered ground. He lifts one trembling hand to his face, wipes at the tears with the back of his wrist like a child trying to hide from punishment.

He doesn’t lift his gaze when he hears the steps behind him.

And when the hand touches his shoulder, he doesn't pull away. Maybe he should. Maybe that’s the moment. Maybe that’s his last chance to remember he was once something more than a mouthpiece and a mask and a thing that couldn't pull a trigger. But instead, he lets it stay. He breathes out, shallow and wrecked.

“Gi-hun,” comes the quiet voice - soft, low, gentle in his ear. “Look at me.”

A shudder runs through him. A breath escapes him like it’s been knocked from his chest. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t lift his eyes. He can’t bear to face the mask, to see the man who unmade him, who held him like a lover and commanded him like a soldier.

“Look at me,” the Front Man repeats, this time softer. A request. Not an order. A tenderness that cuts deeper than any blow.

And Gi-hun moves. Slowly, brokenly, his gaze rises. And he looks. Into the dark surface of the mask. The man behind it. The man who destroyed him and then held him after.

“You’re shaking,” the Front Man murmurs.

Then both hands rise. They cup his face like he’s something precious. Like he hasn’t just collapsed on the altar of everything he ever believed in.

Gi-hun flinches at first. Then leans into it. Almost unconsciously. His eyes close just a little, and when those hands begin to pull away, he chases them with the tilt of his jaw. A fraction. A plea.

“Take a breath,” the Front Man says. “Pull yourself together. Just for a moment.” The words are low, intimate.

And Gi-hun tries. God, he tries. But his mind keeps echoing the sound of her body hitting the dirt. Her voice - “Is he warm? Was he held?” - like a ghost still breathing down his spine. But still, he tries.

“Can you still remember the words?” the Front Man asks, quiet enough that only he can hear.

Gi-hun’s brow furrows.

“What?” he breathes. His voice sounds wrong. Shattered.

“The words,” the Front Man clarifies. “The rules of the Game.”

And suddenly the weight comes crashing back. The arena. The lines in the dirt. The Players. The final Game.

He was supposed to say something. He was supposed to begin it. But how could he? After this? After her?

He wants to scream and say, You fucking monster. How can you even ask me that? How can you let me hold a dead girl, let me cry in your arms, and then ask me to say the rules?

But all that comes out is-

“I-I... I don’t know,” he stammers.

The Front Man sees it. Sees how far gone he is.

“You can do it.” he says, voice just above a whisper.

Gi-hun’s breath hitches. He’s sobbing, now, quietly.

“Repeat after me,” the Front Man says.

Gi-hun nods. Barely.

“Welcome, Players, to the Final Game.” 

Gi-hun echoes. “Welcome…Players, to the Final Game.”

“Each Player must participate independently. No teams are permitted.”

And again: “Each Player must… participate independently…. No teams are… permitted.”

And then Gi-hun keeps going.

Like something in him has snapped into motion. He says the rest of the rules, each one a bullet in his mouth. Words drilled into his bones by repetition, by conditioning, by the suffocating need to belong.

He speaks them all. Deadpan. Hollow.

Perfect.

And when the last line leaves his mouth, the Front Man touches his shoulder.

“You did well.”

Those three words almost kill him. Because they’re soft.  Like praise. Like affection. Like a reward he should never be allowed to have.

“Are you ready?” the Front Man asks.

And Gi-hun, still wrecked, still trembling, still crying so quietly it sounds like he’s breathing through water - he nods.

Because what else is there?

He has nothing left but this.

Let the Games begin. Let the blood run. Let the world end again and again and again.

Because if the price of being seen is damnation, then damn him.

Let him burn. Let him rule. Let him be held.

Let him say the words that kill, just so he can hear his name spoken like a salvation that will never come.

The Front Man lifts his head slightly and gestures with the smallest tilt of his hand. The Triangle Guards by the Players move in perfect sync, letting go of their arms, but raising their rifles in unison. The Players are wordless now, stripped of even defiance, and they begin walking slowly, steadily toward their previous position.

Gi-hun watches all of it like he's underwater.

And just when the Front Man begins to turn, to step away - presumably toward the observational deck, toward the gods in their gold masks above - Gi-hun speaks without meaning to.

“Wait.”

His voice cuts through the quiet. Gi-hun hates how small it sounds, how desperate. 

He can’t look at the Front Man. His eyes flicker - sideways, ashamed - and land on the Black Square Guard instead.

The Square Guard’s head turns just so, the angle of the mask like a sculpted sneer. He doesn’t speak, but Gi-hun feels it. That quiet, corrosive disbelief. 

Gi-hun meets that blank mask for one full, searing heartbeat.

And then he turns back to the Front Man. Because it’s his answer that matters.

Gi-hun continues, the words scraping their way up his throat.

“Can… can you stay? Just - stay here. Please.”

He doesn’t explain what he means. Because he can’t admit it even to himself that the thought of the Front Man stepping back onto that balcony, joining the rest of the monsters who only watch and never bleed, terrifies him. He doesn’t want to be looked down on. Not by him.

He wants him in the dirt. In the wreckage. With him.

The Front Man pauses.

Then, softly, tenderly, he says, “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Gi-hun looks up, startled.

“I just need to give you room,” the Front Man continues, tone quiet. “So you can do it the way it’s meant to be done.”

That should sound like a line. A manipulation. But it doesn't.

It sounds like respect.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Behind him, the Square Guard exhales, but says nothing. Gi-hun looks at him again, briefly. Sees the judgment, the disgust, the confusion.

But Gi-hun ignores him. Because the warmth of the Front Man’s words eclipses it all.

He almost says thank you. The words rise in his throat like reflex - but he swallows them back, suffocating on them, because what kind of man says thank you to this?

Instead, he just nods, barely.

The Front Man steps away slowly. He crosses the field, passing the trembling Players and the silent rifles, until he stands at the edge of the soldier line, just beyond the range of the blood.

A beat passes. Then the Front Man nods toward the dirt.

"Take your position," he says quietly, gently nodding toward the line.

Gi-hun moves. His shoes drag through the dirt like they know where they’re going better than he does.

He steps into the outline marked on the ground.

And there it is. The blood. Her blood.

Jun-hee’s. Dried now. Rust-colored and quiet. The only trace of her that remains. And it’s under his feet.

He doesn’t look down. He can’t look down.

Instead, he lifts his chin. Faces the Players. They’re already watching him, streaked with grime and fear. He sees the accusation in their eyes, the confusion, the bitterness, the resignation.

He sees Hyun-ju, her pity replaced now by stone-hard resentment. She watches him silently, and Gi-hun looks away, stomach twisting.

He breathes deeply, finding that cold, empty space inside himself that he’s learned to wear like armor. When he speaks, it is not his voice - it's the Announcer’s voice, the voice crafted for him by this place. Detached. Mechanical. Hollow. He lets the words fall from his lips, one after another, like pebbles dropped into dark water.

"Welcome, Players, to the Final Game," Gi-hun says, steadying himself with the rhythm of it. "Each Player must participate independently. No teams are permitted. The Game will be played in full until one Player emerges as the final Winner. Victory may be achieved by completing the Game or by eliminating all other Players. Interference of any kind will result in immediate disqualification."

He pauses briefly, letting the weight of the words settle into the silence. 

“The Game you will be playing is Yut Nori,” he continues, voice dull like a recitation in a foreign tongue he once forgot. “You may know the traditional version of the Game, but this version comes with... revised rules.”

Yut Nori, he thinks. A game for families. For holidays. For children in bright hanboks tossing sticks into the air and screaming in delight. And now it's here, in a graveyard made of cameras and quiet.

His gaze blurs into nothing, eyes fixed on some phantom distance, staring past the Players, past the Guards, past even the cruelly perfect sky. Yet he can feel their eyes on him - sharp, probing, filled with questions he has no answers to. Hyun-ju’s stare pierces deepest.

He feels another set of eyes too, different, darker, steadying.

He doesn’t mean to look, but his body knows what it needs. His eyes turn, slow, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

The Front Man.

Still as ever, black mask gleaming. And then - a nod.

So small it might be missed. But to Gi-hun, it lands like a prayer being answered.

A flicker of recognition. Reassurance.

Gi-hun’s chest tightens and releases again, steadied by that subtle gesture. He exhales and then returns to the task. He takes a step back, arm extending behind him, pointing to the ground. There, scrawled large and clear into the dirt, lies the image of a giant Yut Nori board, stark lines of white etched onto the dust - a perfect, terrifyingly simple map of fate.

“This,” Gi-hun says, voice low but carrying, “is the field. An amplified version of the traditional board.”

 

“A Guard will now distribute your yut sticks,” he murmurs, gaze distant, heart hollow.

A Circle Guard approaches the Players, a tray in his gloved hands - sixteen long sticks laid out like sacred tools on velvet. Four for each Player. Carved and polished smooth. Strangely beautiful, for instruments of death.

He moves down the line, silent and precise, handing out four sticks to each Player. They take them numbly, fingers trembling. Confusion painted plainly across their faces - no one’s sure yet whether to treat them like dice or knives.

Gi-hun watches them, his voice dull.

“Each of you has four sticks,” he says. “You’ll throw them each turn to determine how many spaces you move.”

He raises his voice just slightly, enough for it to carry across the blood-soaked dirt.

“One flat side up and three curved sides up - that’s called Do. It means move one space. Two flat, two curved - Gae. Move two spaces. Three flat, one curved - Geol. That’s three spaces. All four flat sides up is Yut. Four spaces. And all four curved is Mo. Five. If you roll Yut or Mo… you get another turn.”

Just then, a Circle Guard steps beside Gi-hun without a word, carrying a large white cardboard, the kind that might've once belonged in a schoolroom or a cheap game night - too innocent for what it now holds.

He hands it to Gi-hun, who takes it with fingers that barely remember how to feel. The board is stiff, oversized. But the drawings are clean. Clear. Cold. A visual explanation designed for death.

Gi-hun lifts it slowly, carefully, the cardboard heavy in a way it shouldn’t be. He holds it up for the Players to see, arms aching.

He points to the upper part first, to the illustrated sticks drawn neatly in a row.

“These are the combinations,” he says, dull and automatic. His finger hovers over each one as he recites them again, slower now. “Do… Gae… Geol… Yut… Mo.”

 

He lowers his hand to the bottom half of the white cardboard.

“In this version,” Gi-hun continues, words feeling slippery, foreign, “you yourselves are the tokens. To complete a circuit, you must successfully navigate one of these four paths on the board and move beyond the home space.”

His fingers tremble as they hover over the red paths inked onto the board. Simple arrows. Empty circles. Four options, neatly drawn.

But to Gi-hun, they look like arteries. Like veins pulsing with the memory of blood already spilled.

He taps the first path - the one that outlines the perimeter, the clean square loop, the long way home. “You can take this path.”

Then he points to the other three routes, one after another - each slicing across the board like a wound. “Or these.”

 

He takes a deep breath.

“No violence is allowed unless two Players land in the same space along the outer edges of the square. If that happens,” he pauses, something clawing up his throat, “you must fight to eliminate the other Player from the house - forcing them beyond the circle’s border, or until one Player is unable to proceed.”

That phrase is so clinical, so clean, it makes him sick. But everyone knows what it means.

Death. Always death.

He pushes forward.

“However,” Gi-hun says, eyes dragging themselves back up to the Players, “if you choose the diagonal route, you’ll reach the finish faster. But speed carries consequences.”

He points again - at the diagonal lines, the red arrows that promise swiftness and scream trap.

“Each space along the diagonal hosts an individual Mini-Game. The rules will only be revealed when a Player lands there.”

The Players watch him now with wide eyes, fear dripping from their silence.

“If two Players land on the same house on the diagonal path, you will face each other in a one-on-one Mini-Game. The nature of that challenge will also only be revealed when it begins.”

Slowly, wordlessly, he lowers the board and hands it back to the Circle Guard beside him. 

“Now,” he whispers, stepping forward, “please position yourselves on the home space.”

Their feet shuffle forward, moving mechanically.

Gi-hun walks ahead of them, silent, solemn - the conductor of their ruin. He leads them toward the massive board carved into the earth, white lines seared into dust like scars into skin. His feet pause just before the wide circle etched into the corner: the beginning house. The place where all movement starts. And ends.

“This is your starting point,” he says, voice hushed. “The home space.”

The Players gather around it, uncertain, their shapes casting long, fractured shadows across the dirt. Gi-hun turns to face them.

A Circle Guard approaches wordlessly and offers him a small velvet bag, deep black, its mouth cinched by a golden cord.

“Your playing order will be determined now,” Gi-hun murmurs.

He steps toward the first: Player 435.

Gi-hun lowers the bag. The man reaches in and pulls out a card - perfectly square, matte black on the back with the familiar symbol burned into it: Circle. Triangle. Square.

He flips the card over. A bold ‘2’, centered in deep black ink.

“Player 435,” Gi-hun says, “you are second.”

Then comes Player 206. His fingers graze the edge of the velvet like it might bite him, but he draws the card anyway and turns it with practiced dread. A ‘3’.

“Player 206, you are third.”

Next, Player 84. The card shakes slightly in his hand as he reveals the number ‘1’.

“Player 84,” Gi-hun says, “you will go first.”

And finally, Hyun-ju.

Gi-hun stands before her, the bag trembling slightly in his hands.  

Hyun-ju doesn’t move. Not right away. There’s only one card left inside. She knows it. He knows it.

Instead, her eyes lift, bright and fierce, sorrow and judgment mingling painfully. Gi-hun meets her gaze unsteadily. Silence fills the spaces between their breath. He has so much to say, too much to apologize for - but no words come. None exist that could erase what he’s done, what he’s become.

Finally, she reaches in, draws the card and turns it. ‘4’.

“Player 120,” Gi-hun whispers finally, something brittle breaking in his voice, “you are fourth.”

Her expression softens slightly, but neither speaks. There is no language left to bridge the gap of blood between them.

Gi-hun turns away before she can watch him fall apart and steps back toward the edge of the field, returning the velvet bag to the Guard without a word. 

He returns his empty gaze to the edge of the arena. The Front Man stands near the Guards, steady and quiet. Watching him. Waiting for Gi-hun to finish the ritual.

And so he does.

“You may begin… when the signal is given.” He finally says, voice distant, cracked.

Gi-hun steps back, body tense, every muscle coiled tight as if bracing for impact, for the echoing judgment of the next moment - and in the blurred edge of his vision, a Square Guard lifts a revolver toward the indifferent sky.

The gunshot cracks through the silence, splitting open the quiet as if reality itself just ruptured.

And so it begins.

Player 84 steps forward first, hand gripping the sticks tight, and Gi-hun watches numbly as the man casts them onto the dust. They scatter, landing softly with muted thuds against the dry ground.

Gi-hun sees it immediately - two flat, two curved sides facing upwards. 

Gae. Two spaces forward.

The Player kneels, picking up the sticks with trembling fingers, eyes glassy and uncertain. Then, he walks across the massive board, every step swallowed by the space between circles, as if time itself is resisting progress. He lands in his house. And waits.

Next, Player 435 throws the sticks, and they spin through the air with a hollow, dreadful grace.

Three flat, one curved. 

Geol. Three spaces.

Gi-hun watches as the Player collects the yut sticks from the ground and steps forward.

Player 206 now moves, casting the sticks across the dirt with an oddly hopeful flick of the wrist. Gi-hun stares blankly, mind slipping slightly - then snapping back when he sees the four flat sides staring upwards. 

Yut. Four steps.

A murmur slips involuntarily from the Player’s lips, a brief, delirious relief that bubbles out like a sob, because another throw means another chance, another step closer to escaping, and the sticks fly again, landing on two flat, two curved.

Gae. Two more spaces.

And he moves. Steps long, decisive, purposeful - onto the diagonal. Of course. The fastest way forward. The shortest path between the beginning and the end.

The moment his foot touches that circle, Gi-hun’s blood runs cold, eyes widening in realization: Mini-Game.

God, what is it?

His mind goes white. Blank. He reaches for the script burned into him, the one he memorized beneath the cold mask of the Front Man. The list of Games. The order. The numbers. The goddamn circles.

But it’s gone. Gone. He should know this. He should be able to say it without thinking.

But nothing comes.

He stands, locked in place, mouth open and silent, panic blooming like fire beneath his tongue.

But then, a Circle Guard approaches, and in his hand - bright colors.

Gi-hun sees the thin sticks. Red, yellow, blue, green.

Of course.

Gi-hun moves forward slowly, mechanically, crossing the dusty earth that clings to his shoes until he stands beside Player 206.

The Circle Guard kneels, spreading the bright sticks carefully into the circle’s heart, colors tangling into a vivid web of chaos.

Gi-hun’s voice finds him.

“The Game you will play is Pick-Up Sticks. You must remove five colored sticks without moving any others,” he says, words trembling slightly around their edges. “A single slip, a single movement-” He pauses, gaze darting to the Circle Guard, to a Triangle Guard lingering too close, observing intently. “-will result in elimination.”

The Player nods, eyes wide and breath shallow, bending low, fingers hovering delicately above the tangled colors.

Gi-hun watches.

One stick.

Then two.

Each breath he draws feels stolen, unearned, lodged behind his ribs. Every movement the Player makes is precise, careful, too calm.

Three sticks.

He almost speaks. The words brush the back of his tongue - steady, don’t rush, breathe - but he doesn't say them. He can’t. Because something in him wants him to fail.

Four.

The Triangle Guard leans in - hungry, watching, still.

Then, fingers - delicate and slow - close around the final stick.

A pause. A breath.

And the Player lifts it, clean, silent, perfect.

Gi-hun feels it the moment it happens - an ache beneath his sternum. Disappointment. Rotten and low and bitter as bile. He swallows it like poison.

You’re not supposed to want them dead, he thinks.

But he does. He remembers how they voted to stay. How they turned their backs on the X Players. How they killed and watched Geum-ja bleed out. How they whispered about Jun-hee like she was meat. How they wanted the Games to go on.

They wanted this. More death. More blood. More of the same.

So when Player 206 lifts the final stick with a clean hand and an easy breath, Gi-hun has to force the words from his throat.

“Player 206…” he says, voice flat. “Pass.”

The Triangle Guard lingers for another breath - just long enough to remind them that it could’ve gone differently - then steps back.

And then, finally-

Hyun-ju.

She doesn’t hesitate. She moves with that same terrifying grace that has followed her through every circle of this nightmare. Not reckless or hopeful. But resigned. As though even fate doesn’t surprise her anymore.

She kneels and throws the sticks.

Three curved. One flat. 

Do. One.

Gi-hun’s lungs seize.

That’s not enough. Too slow. She’ll be left behind.

He watches her pick up the sticks, her fingers steady. As if she knows she’s already being outpaced. That the others are already carving up the field while she remains near the beginning.

She walks the distance to the first house.

A Circle Guard steps forward, white board in hand, a meticulous drawing swiftly sketched onto it. Gi-hun stares numbly at the fresh lines, the cruelly innocent circles indicating the Players’ positions at the end of this round.

 

The Players stand, breathless and silent, eyes flicking between each other, Gi-hun, and the looming figures of the Guards. 

Gi-hun breathes in slowly. “The second round begins now,” he says. “Player 84. You may play.”

Player 84 nods stiffly, throwing the sticks. They scatter - three flat, one curved. 

Geol. Three.

Gi-hun barely watches him move.

Already, Player 435 steps forward, throwing his sticks with a nervous, twitchy haste. Two flat, two curved. 

Gae. Two spaces.

Gi-hun doesn’t even have time to think before he sees it happen. 435’s last step lands directly inside 84’s circle.

Player 435 stops short, eyes widening as he realizes where he stands. Fear floods both Players’ faces simultaneously, a mirror of dread, their bodies stiffening as they stare at each other from within the same white boundary.

Gi-hun’s mouth opens automatically, voice distant, the words returning without permission, recited from a place he can’t escape.

“You landed in the same circle… on the side of the square.”

His throat tightens.

“You must fight to eliminate the other Player from the house. Force them beyond the circle’s border… or-” He falters, “-make your opponent unable to proceed.”

That phrase again. That awful, perfect phrase. 

He hears footsteps behind him, feels the air shift - the Triangle Guard appears silently at his side, rifle ready, patient and merciless as death itself.

Gi-hun’s voice drops. “Begin.”

The Players surge forward, grappling violently, bodies colliding like animals trapped in a cage. Hands grasp and shove, elbows collide sharply, bodies twist and strain with desperation. No finesse, just instinct.

Gi-hun’s breath sticks in his throat, eyes glazing over as the fight unfolds - fists clench, fingernails scratch, shoes slip and scrape, dust rising around them in thick, suffocating clouds.

And then Player 84 reaches for the knife.

Cold, dull metal. Still stained from the Fifth Game. From Geum-ja.  He sees the blade and already knows how this ends.

Player 435 pulls his own, quick and unthinking.

Gi-hun’s knees lock. His heart punches violently against his ribs, a staccato rhythm he knows too well.

This violence - this primal ritual of survival – it thrusts him back.

Same arena.

Same dirt.

Same air.

Same Doll towering overhead, frozen and watching.

But a different Game.

A different man.

Gi-hun feels the ghost of sand scraping his knees, blood mixing with rain, the hot iron taste flooding his mouth as he struggled in the dirt with- 

No.

He can’t say it. He can’t think the name. He can’t summon the dead again. Not here, not now, not ever again - not after that Guard, the Circle Guard who tilted his head at that impossible, familiar angle, who touched his hand gently, listened patiently, like-

Gi-hun raises a shaking hand to his face, pressing it hard against his mouth, swallowing the sound clawing up his throat. His vision shudders.

Without thinking, his fingers seek the scar on his left hand - the pale, raised mark tingling violently, the place where the knife had once torn through his palm, where Sang-

Fuck.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut.

Just for a second. Just long enough to pretend this isn’t happening. Long enough to believe that memory can be outrun if you only keep your eyes closed tight enough.

But when he opens them again, the Circle Guard is standing there, masked face cocked slightly to one side. Watching him.

Gi-hun freezes.

“Remember how it ended?” the Circle Guard whispers.

Gi-hun shakes his head once, sharp. As if to fling a ghost off his back.

“You left me there,” the Guard murmurs again, softly, accusingly. “In the dirt, bleeding out. You watched me die.”

Gi-hun’s mouth moves silently, shaking his head again slowly, desperately.

“No,” he whispers. But the word feels weak, unconvincing. It’s barely a denial, barely even a sound.

The Triangle Guard beside him turns, curious, human, head tilting just enough to register confusion.

Does he see him too? No. No, no. This is in his head. This isn’t real. It can’t be real.

The Circle Guard steps closer - or maybe he doesn’t, maybe he’s always been this close, maybe he’s inside Gi-hun’s head, always has been, always will be.

“You could have stopped it,” the Circle Guard continues, voice low and gentle, slicing through Gi-hun with each quiet syllable. “You could have saved me from myself. But you didn’t.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches violently. His hands shake, the scar on his palm throbbing as if freshly wounded, blood pulsing beneath skin and memory and grief.

“Say it,” the Circle Guard whispers again, closer now, an impossible shadow in Gi-hun’s peripheral vision. “Say my name. I dare you.”

“Shut up,” Gi-hun breathes, voice trembling, cracking around the words. “Shut up, shut up, please-”

The Circle Guard tilts his head again, slow and devastatingly familiar. 

“You can’t even say it. Because if you say it, I’m real again.”

Gi-hun jerks his gaze away violently, nausea surging through him. When he looks back, the Circle Guard is gone - vanished into air.

A guttural, choking noise splits the silence, wrenching Gi-hun brutally back to now.

Player 84 is on the ground, twitching, choking on red, so much red, spilling, pooling darkly in the dust. Player 435 kneels above him, blade descending again, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing.

Gi-hun’s vision tunnels, dizzy and fractured, the violence distorted into flashes, fragments - blood, knife, circle, blood, choke, blood, smile, blood, red, red, red-

He can’t watch. Can’t stop hearing the gurgle of life spilling out onto dirt-

Then silence.

Player 435 rises slowly, staggering upright, drenched in blood, smiling wide and empty like a man possessed.

Gi-hun recoils, chest heaving, eyes down - anywhere but that smile, anywhere but that triumph drenched in murder.

Circle Guards move in swiftly, quietly, gathering what remains of Player 84, carrying him away, leaving behind only a dark smear in the circle.

Gi-hun forces himself to breathe, choking air down into his lungs, swallowing back bile, struggling to reassemble the shattered pieces of himself.

He lifts his head, forcing calm into his voice, ignoring the red, ignoring the ghosts, ignoring the trembling deep beneath his skin.

He is still standing.

Somehow, he is still standing.

He shoves the Circle Guard down into the back of his mind. Into a locked corridor, into the cellar where dead men go to whisper. He locks the door. He throws the key somewhere inside his own throat. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine.

There’s no Circle Guard. There’s no name.

There’s only the task.

He turns toward Player 206.

The man lifts the sticks with methodical hands, fingers twitching slightly but not shaking. He throws. Two flat. Two curved.

Gae. Two spaces forward.

Player 206 walks the wide steps, fast, certain, his stride too smooth and confident. He reaches the center of the board.

And Gi-hun remembers.

Before the Circle Guard even moves, before the materials are carried out, before a word is said - he knows exactly which Game this is.

He walks to the Player.

“The Game is Memory String. A sequence of ten lights will flash across three buttons - red, yellow and blue. You must repeat it back. Perfectly.”

His mouth is dry. He finishes the sentence slowly, like it hurts.

“Mistakes mean elimination.”

The Circle Guard places the device in the center of the house: three large buttons, each one smooth and impossibly clean. Red with a circle. Yellow with a triangle. Blue with a square. The symbols of this place. The brand that owns them.

The buttons begin to flash. Fast. Faster than they should.

The rhythm is dizzying - sharp lights blinking in complex, rhythmic bursts. The sound is soft but cruel: a chiming, taunting melody.

Player 206 watches, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. He tries to track them. Gi-hun can see the panic bloom in the stillness of his face.

The sequence ends.

Silence.

The Player exhales hard and raises a hand to the buttons.

Red. Blue. Yellow.

He hesitates.

Then taps again. One. Another. Slower. A pause. Then another.

One by one, the pattern unfolds beneath trembling fingers.

He finishes.

The three buttons flicker white, pulsing in unison, and play a short, victorious melody. Bright, mechanical, too cheerful for a place like this.

He got it right.

Gi-hun swallows down the feeling twisting in his gut. He stares, unmoved, voice flat.

“Player 206… pass.”

But his thoughts are louder than the words.

Three houses away. He’s three fucking houses away from the finish. And she’s-

She is behind.

And it’s her turn now.

Hyun-ju’s hands gather the sticks, her fingers graceful, unfazed. She throws. 

Yut. Four.

And again - Do. One.

Five spaces.

She chooses the diagonal. Of course she does. Brave. Always brave. Foolishly, beautifully brave.

She walks and lands in the same circle where death nearly kissed Player 206 –

Pick-Up Sticks.

Gi-hun is already moving. Every step heavier than the last, heart hammering. This is different now. This is her.

He doesn’t look at the Circle Guard. He doesn’t need to. The sticks are already being placed - tangled, vibrant, vicious.

He stops at the edge of the circle and explains the rules again. He watches her nod once. She doesn’t ask anything. She doesn’t hesitate.

She lowers herself to the ground and begins.

One stick. Two. Three.

He holds his breath for the fourth. It’s nearly fused to the one beside it, barely visible beneath a tangle of color. She reaches slowly, thumb and forefinger trembling the slightest bit.

She lifts it. Nothing moves.

But the fifth-

The fifth stick fights her.

It’s wedged into a tight crosshatch of others, locked in the way only small, cruel things can be. Her hand shifts, just slightly - just enough that Gi-hun sees the Triangle Guard across the circle tilt his head. His gloved fingers curl around the rifle at his side.

Not raising it. Not yet. But ready.

Hyun-ju’s eyes narrow. She moves slower now. Her fingers thread between the web, and for a second, everything stops.

And then-

The stick comes free.

Gi-hun releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Player 120…” he says, barely more than a whisper, “pass.”

Hyun-ju kneels for a breath longer, and then rises slowly, hands dirt-dusted, face unreadable. Her eyes follow the Circle Guard as he carefully collects the colored sticks.

But she does not look at Gi-hun. Not once.

And somehow, that hurts more than if she had turned and screamed. 

Behind them, the Circle Guard with the board redraws the positions. No words. Just placement and progress. Just the quiet bureaucracy of death.

 

“The third round begins now,” Gi-hun says. “Player 206… your turn.”

Gi-hun’s eyes dart, almost without his permission, to the sticks - their soft curves, the way they rest so innocently in the Player’s palm. And he knows what’s at stake. He knows the weight of the numbers carved in those throws.

Just four steps.

That’s all Player 206 needs. Just four.

Yut or Mo, and it’s over.

He would circle the board and the Final Game would end with him. Not with Hyun-ju. She wouldn’t even get a turn. 

Gi-hun closes his eyes. Tightly. Desperate.

Not Yut. Not Mo. Not yet. Please.

He doesn’t watch the throw. He hears it - the soft, too-soft scattering of wood across dust, like bones tumbling in a grave.

Not more than three. Please, not more than three.

He opens one eye. Then both.

Gae. Two flat, two curved.

Two. He moves two.

Gi-hun almost collapses with the weight of his relief. 

Player 206 moves with a strange confidence. He’s been on the diagonal since round one. Already won two Mini-Games. And now he walks into the last circle. The end of the diagonal line.

What was this Game? What was it?

Gi-hun closes his eyes again. He sees script. Diagrams of the board. Notes scrawled beneath each circle.

There was a timer involved, wasn’t there? Yes. Yes. A timed Game. The last circle of the diagonal path.

And inside - what was written? What was it-

Then it clicks.

Gi-hun approaches the Player.

“The Game you will play is Marble Maze.”

A Circle Guard appears from the edge of the arena like a ghost, carrying something small and dark. A box. Wooden. Black-painted edges bearing the eternal icons - Circle, Triangle, Square. The top is glass.

Gi-hun looks down into the box and sees it: a blue marble nestled at the bottom of a maze carved into tight wooden walls. So many corridors. Too many. The finish sits at the top corner, far from where the marble rests, impossibly far.

“You must guide the marble from the starting point at the base of the maze to the goal at the top. You may not open the box or use your hands inside. If the marble does not reach the goal before the timer reaches zero… you are eliminated.”

The timer behind the Doll flares to life.

“You have one minute.”

01:00.

“Begin.”

00:59. 00:58

The Player starts. The marble crashes against the wood, the box jerking too hard in his hands. He curses softly, resets, breath loud and fast.

Gi-hun steps back, arms limp at his sides.

The Player is panicking. His movements chaotic, frantic, hands trembling like he’s holding a live animal. The marble skids, gets caught in a corner.

Dead end.

“Fuck, fuck, come on...no-”

He jerks the box again.

00:47. 00:46. 00:45

Gi-hun stares at the maze. Tries to find a way. 

That turn? No, it forks the wrong way. That line - leads into nothing. Go left. No-no, that’s a loop. Fuck. That path - is that even a path? No. It’s a trick. A trap. Everything is. Everything is.

The Player growls in frustration. His knees buckle slightly as he crouches lower, trying to get a better angle, arms now shaking visibly. Sweat rolls down his cheek and splatters against the glass.

00:30. 00:29. 00:28

The Player bites his lip. His breath comes faster, shorter.

He’ll never do it. He can’t. It’s impossible.

Let it be impossible.

Then - a moment of luck.

The marble finds a new route. He tilts the box gently. It moves. One turn. Another. And another.

Every direction is right. 

No. No, no - he’s going to make it.

Gi-hun’s mouth is dry. His fingers curl inward. His eyes flick to the timer.

00:08. 00:07. 00:06

Two more turns. That’s all that’s left.

The Player gasps, mouth open, chest heaving.

00:04.

00:03.

00:02.

The marble rolls faster now. The end is visible. The final stretch. The marble tips- 

00:01.

It falls- 

00:00.

A breath too late. A fraction. A cruel, precise second.

And Gi-hun saw it. He saw it. The moment the marble clicked into the final slot, the clock had already died.

Player 206 looks up, holds out the box - shows it to Gi-hun, like it’s proof, like it matters. His face is open. Pleading. See?, it says. I made it. I did it.

“Player 206…” Gi-hun says, voice hollow, “eliminated.”

There’s a pause.

Then-

“No. No, I did it. I…look-look!”

The Player thrusts the maze forward again, glass smudged with fingerprints, the marble shining where it rests at the end.

“I did it! I swear, look at it! It’s there - it’s there!” His voice cracks into something childlike. High, desperate, shrill.

Gi-hun stares at the box. And yes. The marble is in the end.

But that’s not what matters.

What matters is time. What matters is rules.

What matters is that Hyun-ju gets another chance.

The Triangle Guard steps forward.

The Player stumbles backward, holding the maze in front of him like a shield. “No. No. WAIT-!”

The Guard raises the gun.

“Please! Please, I did it! I swear, I did-!”

Gi-hun turns away, one hand lifting to the scar on his left palm, pressing down hard, trying to ground himself, trying not to see the blood before it spills, trying not to remember Geum-ja, and Jun-hee, and all the others this man would have sacrificed just to win. 

A killer. Yes, that’s all he is. This man doesn’t get to win.

That thought makes it easier. Easier to stand here. Easier to look away.

The gunshot cracks like lightning - close, final, devouring.

Gi-hun hears the marble box hit the dirt first.

Then the body.

Then silence.

The Circle Guards come again, boots scuffing lightly in the dust, lifting the fallen shape like it's already forgotten.

Gi-hun doesn’t look. He stares at the wall, at the timer now blank.

And then-

Laughter.

Gi-hun turns his head just enough.

Player 435 is smiling.

Watching the body disappear. Watching death dragged away like trash. Grinning like it’s his turn to shine.

He steps forward and picks up the sticks like they’re trophies. He tosses them without ceremony.

Three flat. One curved. 

Geol. Three.

He walks - bold, assured, unbothered - into the center of the board, the third circle along the diagonal.

Gi-hun’s eyes narrow. Interesting. Every one of them went diagonal. 206. Hyun-ju. Now 435. No one’s touched the square perimeter, even though it’s less bloody. Less risky.

He wonders if it was instinct. Or maybe just imitation. One went diagonal, and the rest followed, because no one can afford to fall behind. 

He walks to the Player and recites the rules of Memory String again.

The Circle Guard appears with the same three buttons and sets them in front of the Player.

The first flickers begin.

Red. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Red. Blue. Red. Yellow. Blue.

That stupid melody again. Soft and tinny, like it’s being piped from some child’s toy.

Gi-hun watches as Player 435 repeats the sequence with mechanical precision. Not a single mistake. Fingers flying like he’s done this a hundred times in some other life.

The buttons light white.

Gi-hun closes his eyes and sighs, quiet, bitter. 

This could’ve been Hyun-ju’s chance.

He swallows hard. “Player 435… pass.”

The Player gives him a look, empty and triumphant. And then steps back.

Gi-hun turns. Almost afraid to hope. 

Hyun-ju.

She kneels. Throws.

Do. One.

Fuck. One again. Just one.

She steps forward, and he watches her walk to the second circle on the diagonal.

Another Circle Guard is already moving, black boots soft in the blood-warmed sand, carrying something delicate - absurdly so.

A small bundle of cards. Only seven.

Thin, worn at the corners, edges faded. Like something from a child’s drawer or an old magician’s coat.

Gi-hun’s gaze drops to the backs of them - and his stomach twists, violently.

One card bears the image of the carousel from the Mingle Game. Another, the gonggi stones he watched Players bleed over. One is stamped with the slide from Catch the Flag. Another etched with the face of the Doll, that massive, mechanical monster whose eyes never stopped watching.

He sees them all. Miniatures of trauma, flattened and turned into tokens. Into toys. 

It makes him sick. It makes him want to scream.

The Circle Guard places the cards in Hyun-ju’s hands. She accepts them without a word.

Gi-hun finds himself whispering again.

“The Game you will play is House of Cards. You must build a two-story tower using the cards. You have two minutes. If the tower collapses during construction… you are eliminated.”

She lowers herself to the ground. Knees to the dust. Cards in her hands.

“Begin.”

The timer on the wall behind the doll ignites in red. 

02:00.

01:59.

01:58.

She begins.

Her hands tremble slightly as she touches the first two cards together, pressing them into a triangle. Gi-hun sees it - sees the quiver in her fingers, the slight drag of a breath too slow to steady.

The wind doesn't exist in the arena, but he feels like even his existence might knock it over.

Gi-hun takes an unconscious step back, suddenly terrified that even the breath from his body might drift toward her, knock the whole thing down.

Please, no - don’t fall. Don’t fall. Please, let her have this.

01:33.

She forms the second triangle.

The cards lean into each other with an elegance he can barely stand. It’s almost tender.

01:14.

The base is done. Two triangles side by side. Stable enough. Barely.

She reaches for the final card to place across the top. The bridge. The second story.

00:58. 00:57.

Gi-hun grips the sleeve of his coat so tightly he feels the fabric cut into his palm. He watches the cards respond to her breath.

00:46. 00:45.

The first top card holds.

Almost. Almost there.

00:30. 00:29.

And now the last card. She raises it like it’s made of glass. Her fingers hover over the fragile structure. Not touching. Just measuring the air.

00:21.

She lowers it.

Slow.

Slower.

Contact.

The card rests.

Perfect.

The tower stands.

00:08.

It’s done.

Hyun-ju exhales. Her shoulders drop like she’s just returned from war.

Gi-hun does too. His legs feel weak.

“Player 120… pass.” He says, relieved.

Hyun-ju doesn't react. She just sits there, hands in her lap, staring at the thing she built.

Round three is over.

The dust seems to settle heavier now, like it knows what’s coming. Gi-hun doesn’t need to be told - the next round will decide everything. It has to. The air hums with finality. Only two Players remain.

The Circle Guard with the board redraws the board - Player 435 now in the third circle of the diagonal, and Hyun-ju, alone, still trailing behind in the second. 

 

“The fourth round begins now. Player 435, your turn.”

The man - loose-shouldered, casual - throws the sticks.

Gae. Two.

Gi-hun tenses.

He moves to the last house on the diagonal. The final one. Marble Maze. Again.

The Circle Guard appears with the wooden box, same as before - symbols on the sides, glass over the top, and at the base of the maze, the single blue marble gleaming like something sentient.

Gi-hun walks forward. Each step tastes like resentment.

He recites the rules - flat and automatic, though inside he’s screaming. Let it drop. Let it slip. Let him fail just once.

“Begin.”

01:00. 00:59. 00:58

The Player tilts the box, confident, effortless.

The marble rolls like it already knows the way.

Gi-hun watches, hoping – begging - for a mistake. 

Turn left. No. Go right. No-

But the man doesn’t need help. He’s all luck. He has been since the beginning.

The marble glides down the final stretch. Drops into the finish with twelve seconds still on the clock.

Gi-hun stares at it. His face goes pale.

“Player 435… pass.” He says it through gritted teeth.

Hyun-ju moves. It’s her turn again. She throws the yut sticks.

Gi-hun leans forward, barely breathing.

Please. Five. Mo. Give her five. Let her end this now. Let her finish it-

But no.

Three flat, one curved.

Geol. Three.

He counts the houses, eyes tracing her path before she even takes it. His pulse staggers when he sees where she’s going. His mouth opens, but he remains silent. Then he sees her stop.

Same house. The same circle Player 435 occupies.

His stomach drops. 

No. No no no.

If two Players land in the same house along the diagonal…

A one-on-one Mini-Game.

Of course. Of course. It’s come to this. Her and him.

There was only one of these written. Only one Mini-Game designed for this possibility - because the odds of it happening twice were so low.

But fate doesn’t care about odds.

He turns toward her. Toward them. He meets Hyun-ju’s eyes as he speaks.

“The Game you will play is Tuho.”

His gaze doesn’t leave hers, even as a Circle Guard approaches, carrying a long rectangular case and a narrow-necked jar, lacquered black with red and gold trim.

Gi-hun speaks slowly, clearly, each word another weight pulling his spine down.

“In Tuho, each of you will be given three arrows. The goal is to cast them into the mouth of the jar. One at a time.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move. Just watches as the Guard opens the box and hands three arrows to each player.

Red-feathered for Player 120. Blue-feathered for Player 435.

“The winner is the one with the most arrows inside. In the case of a draw…” Gi-hun swallows, “you will repeat the Game.”

The Circle Guard kneels. He draws a thin chalk line into the dirt - roughly two meters from the jar.

Gi-hun gestures, quietly. “Step behind the line.”

They do. Without words. Without fear. Not anymore.

He nods toward Hyun-ju.

“Hyu- …uh, Player 120, you begin.”

Hyun-ju raises the first arrow. Her hands are steady. She inhales once, deep and slow, and throws.

It arcs perfectly. Slides into the jar with a soft, satisfying clink.

Gi-hun exhales. He hadn’t known he was holding his breath.

Player 435 steps forward, mirroring her. His first arrow lands too.

Even.

Second arrow now.

Hyun-ju again. Another breath. Another cast. Another clink.

Two.

435’s turn. His second arrow hits the edge of the jar. Bounces. Misses.

Gi-hun sways slightly. 

Now. Now it’s her turn.

The third arrow.

Hyun-ju takes longer this time. Her fingers flex. She closes her eyes for a second, then opens them. She throws.

It hits the lip - too sharp, too fast - and bounces off, rolling away in the dirt.

Gi-hun goes cold. 

No.

If Player 435 lands this final one, it resets. They start again. The whole thing - again.

Player 435 picks up the last arrow. Gi-hun can see the shift in his shoulders. He’s confident. Smiling. Still smiling.

He throws.

The arrow sails - straight and clean - and strikes the rim of the jar.

It tilts. Brushes the edge. Teeters.

And falls.

It lands in the dirt with a whisper. A soft, dumb little thud that shouldn’t mean anything. That shouldn’t hold the weight of goddamn salvation. But it does. It does.

Gi-hun doesn’t move. He’s so still it hurts, like even the air inside him forgot how to exist.

Then - he smiles. A quiet, blasphemous thing curling at the corners of his mouth like sin.

“Player 120…pass.”

She made it.

She made it.

She fucking made it.

Gi-hun wants to laugh. Wants to scream. Wants to tear the earpiece off his own face and kiss the dirt she stands on. He wants to fall to his knees and cry into her fists and say, You lived, you lived, you lived.

But he can’t. He doesn’t.

He can’t show it. Not here, not now. He is their puppet, their voice. Their Announcer. The man made of wire and silence.

But inside?

Oh, inside, he’s on fire. Inside, he’s sobbing.

Inside, he’s holding Jun-hee’s face, and Geum-ja’s hand, and every damn person who bled so she could stand where she’s standing, alive, alive, alive.

And she looks at him.

Oh God, she finally looks at him.

Her eyes - not victory. Not even joy. Just… survival. Raw, glimmering relief. And beneath it, something heavier, sadder.

Because she knows the cost. The body count stacked beneath her feet. Because for her to stand here, four hundred others had to fall. Had to be buried. Had to be killed. And that kind of triumph doesn't shine. It scars.

Gi-hun knows. Of course he knows. That was him, once. A winner. A lone soul floating on a sea of corpses. That look on her face?

It’s the same one he wore in the mirror for years.

He nods at her once and looks away before it breaks him. Instead, he looks at the Guard holding the board. This time, there is only one number written on it.

 

But then-

“No…”

The word is small.  Desperate.

“No. No. NO.”

Gi-hun’s eyes snap to Player 435.

He picks up the last arrow he threw from the dirt. His hand is trembling. He stares not at Gi-hun  -  but at the Triangle Guard beside him, whose gun is already beginning to rise, inevitable.

“Please-” he breathes. “Please, I can’t-don’t. She cheated, I saw-“

The Guard does not respond. The rifle lifts higher.

“DON’T!” the man screams, eyes going wild, feral with fear. “SHE CHEATED! SHE FUCKING-”

And then he’s moving.

Toward Hyun-ju.

Gi-hun doesn’t see the knife at first. All he sees is a shape crashing toward her like a wave of panic. And then - glint of silver. Raised high.

Player 435 is on her.

Hyun-ju lets out a strangled gasp as she’s slammed to the ground, breath driven from her chest. The blade arcs downward - aimed for her heart.

“NO!” Gi-hun screams. Full-bodied. Shattering. 

He’s running. Too slow. The Triangle Guard hesitates - just long enough. Just one beat too long.

Hyun-ju grabs his wrist. The blade halts an inch above her. Her eyes are wide, wild. Panic bleeds into fury.

“GET OFF!”

They thrash - her elbow driving into his ribs, his knee grinding down into her stomach. He roars, voice hoarse, the knife pushing closer, inch by inch, trembling between her strength and his rage.

“You don’t get to win! YOU DON’T GET TO WIN!”

The Guard lifts his rifle, finally-

But another shot cracks through the air before he can fire.

One single bullet. From behind.

Player 435’s head jerks, violently, then stops.

Everything stops.

His body slumps. The knife falls from his hand. His weight collapses fully onto Hyun-ju, limp and heavy like a sack of soaked cloth.

Blood. Everywhere. His skull torn open, leaking onto her chest.

And then Gi-hun’s gaze lift - slow, slow, slow - and finds the Front Man standing there. Arm extended. Gun raised. A thin ribbon of smoke curling from the muzzle like incense at a funeral.

He lowers it.

Their eyes meet across the blood-soaked air. And for one fractured instant, the world narrows to that gaze.

No sound. No blood. No Players. Just them.

The man who destroyed him - and then held him.

The man who rewrote his soul and kissed the wound closed without ever touching lips to skin.

The man who called him by name, and in doing so, carved a hole where his resistance used to be.

A communion. A language built not of words, but of witnessing.

Gi-hun’s lips part - half in awe, half in accusation. He wants to stay in that stare. That terrible, gentle stare.

But then-

A sound. A struggle. A gasp.

Hyun-ju.

Gi-hun tears his gaze away from the Front Man like it wounds him to do so, breaking the spell.

His head whips down, eyes falling to the figure crushed beneath the weight of the dead. Hyun-ju is pinned, her body curled beneath 435’s corpse, struggling to move beneath the blood-soaked mass, her face twisted in pain and rage and horror.

And he forgets protocol completely.

Fuck the performance. Fuck the careful voice he was trained to use. 

What are they going to do, shoot her? Disqualify her? She is the Winner. The Game is over. It ended when that arrow fell. It ended when Hyun-ju lived.

He drops to his knees beside her, fast and graceless, not as the Announcer, not as the Front Man’s echo, but as a man who no longer gives a single damn what mask he wears.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Her face is twisted beneath the weight of the corpse, her arms pinned awkwardly. Blood is everywhere, soaking her front, matting her hair, streaked across her neck like someone tried to erase her throat with red.

“I-I'm okay,” she says, voice thready, pained.

Gi-hun grabs the dead man by the shoulder, shoving him off her. The body lands beside them in a heap, limbs sprawled like a marionette with its strings cut.

Hyun-ju gasps as the weight lifts off her chest, drawing in a full breath like it's the first she’s had in years.

Gi-hun’s hands linger at her sides. He needs to be sure. Needs to feel that her ribs rise and fall. That her skin is warm. That the blood isn’t leaking from somewhere fatal he can’t yet see. He scans her with frantic eyes. Neck. Chest. Arms. No wound. No tear.

Just blood. Just 435’s blood. Not hers.

And for a breath - one single, fragile breath - it’s enough.

She’s alive. That truth takes up his whole mind like fire.

Hyun-ju looks at him again. At first, there’s gratitude in her eyes. A flicker of something soft, trembling, almost childlike in its rawness. The kind of emotion that exists only in the seconds after death chooses someone else. But then… it changes.

Her gaze shifts - past him.

To him. To the Front Man, who still stands there, watching in silence.

And then her eyes come back to Gi-hun. But they aren’t soft anymore. What’s left is heavier: the weight of betrayal, of accusation, pressing into every part of her stare.

And Gi-hun knows. He sees it all, carved into that one glance. No matter how many times he checks her pulse, how many times he touches her face to confirm she’s still alive - none of it undoes the hug.

None of it erases the moment he was held. The moment he wanted to be held.

And she knows it.

But Gi-hun doesn’t care. All that matters is that she’s breathing. That the blood isn’t hers. That her eyes, however filled with fury, are still open.

She stays there for another breath, another five, another heartbeat stretching eternity.

Then two Triangle Guards step forward and wordlessly reach down, one to each side of her. Without ceremony, without a word of comfort, they hook their arms under hers and pull her to her feet.

Hyun-ju doesn’t argue. She lets them lift her, her legs swaying, barely strong enough to hold her. She doesn’t wipe her face. Doesn’t glance at the corpse beside her.

As she reaches the edge of the arena, she pauses. She looks back. 

And Gi-hun watches her look. Watches her eyes try to find what used to live in him. The part of him that was righteous. That was human.  But whatever she’s reaching for, she doesn’t find it. Or maybe she does, and it’s just too broken to be worth naming.

She holds his gaze for a breath too long.

And then, quietly, without ceremony, she turns and disappears through the doorway without a word. 

Gi-hun stays kneeling for a long moment after she’s gone, like the weight of her gaze hasn’t quite let him go. When he finally gets up, his knees ache. His spine groans. His body has carried too many roles now - victim, monster, mask.

He turns and sees them dragging Player 435 away, his arm bent at an unnatural angle, face slack with the insult of death. Gi-hun doesn’t look at the face. He looks at the trail. The line of blood being pulled across the ground like a brushstroke. Red turned black.

Something about it won’t let him look away. He feels like it’s pointing to something. Writing something. A sentence he’s been too afraid to read.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps this time. Only the voice, slipping into the moment like it belongs there.

“You were magnificent.”

Gi-hun says nothing. Refuses to look at the Front Man. His chest rises, falls. That’s the only proof he hasn’t gone entirely still.

“I mean it,” the Front Man adds. “What you did out there… not many could’ve managed it.”

The words don’t land. Or maybe they land too well. Gi-hun feels them all over his skin like a heat he didn’t ask for.

Still he says nothing.

Then a hand touches his shoulder, light, careful. Familiar in the worst possible way.

Gi-hun jerks away. Sharp. Violent. Reflexive.

No.

No comfort. Not again.

Once was enough. Once was a mistake. Once was already too much - it cost him her gaze. Her trust. Her final silence.

He takes a step back and puts space between them like it matters. Like space can undo what’s already been done.

“There’s still something left for you to do.”

Gi-hun blinks, like a man waking from a dream and not liking the world he’s been returned to. “What?”

“You should go to her.”

Gi-hun doesn’t understand.

“Go to her,” the Front Man repeats. “Congratulate her.”

The words hit him wrong. Off-key. Crooked. Congratulate? He repeats it silently. Congratulate her? His mind takes a moment to catch up, to find a thread and follow it-

And then it lands. The limousine. After the Final Game. The leather seat. The blindfold. The voice. That conversation.

Gi-hun finally turns toward the Front Man.

“That’s your job,” he says, voice cracked. “Isn’t it?”

The Front Man is silent.

“You’re the one who congratulates us when it’s over. The final line. The pat on the back. You tell us well done, hand us our blood money, and send us on our way.  

He breathes through the memory, tastes it again - bittersweet and wrong.

“You didn’t give me that job. You gave me the other one. The voice. The Square Guard. The fucking Announcer. Not your role.”

A pause.

“I usually don’t do that part personally,” the Front Man says, slowly. His voice is soft, reflective. “But your victory… was unusual. I took personal interest.”

Gi-hun stares at him, hollowed out. “Why?”

A beat.

“Never in the history of the Games has a Player reached the end without killing someone with their own hands.”

Gi-hun stares at him.

“You said I killed,” he mutters.

“That’s different,” the Front Man replies. “I meant you allowed deaths. You stepped aside when it served you. You chose not to save. But your hands remained, technically, clean.”

The words slam into him like cold water. Special interest. That's what it was. That's what he was. A curiosity. A unique line in the ledger. Not a man. Not a winner. A case study.

He can’t tell if that makes him chosen or cursed.

Gi-hun swallows hard. “So what? I’m going to sit in that stupid car and take her home like a prize?”

The Front Man’s voice is gentler than it has any right to be. “No. That ride was also… a result of special interest. Not standard.”

“Of course not,” Gi-hun whispers.

Of course.

How absurd it was to even ask.

To imagine softness now, after everything. A quiet ride in the back of a black car, the city lights sliding by like nothing had happened. As if survival could ever be elegant. As if anything about this was still meant for comfort.

He knows now - he wasn’t chosen for kindness. He was chosen because he survived without staining his hands. Because his guilt was clean enough to study. Because his ruin was interesting.

“You’ll want to keep it brief,” the Front Man says, stepping back into his role, like they’re discussing logistics and not the wreckage of human lives. “Keep it neutral. She’s processing, and victory has a way of distorting reality in those first few hours. Don’t moralize. Don’t console. Just acknowledge. Let her define it.”

Let her define it. As if any of this could be defined. As if the word “victory” meant anything when it came wrapped in blood and screams.

Gi-hun turns from the Front Man’s voice, the instructions still echoing in his head. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. They both know he’ll go. What choice does he have? Refuse, and she walks away thinking he was never human to begin with. Go, and maybe… maybe he can prove otherwise.

 

---

 

The hallway is silent when Gi-hun stops in front of the door. White. Blank. Innocuous.

Behind him, the two Guards remain motionless. The weight of their attention presses into his back like unseen hands.

He turns slightly, voice dry. “Can I go in?”

They say nothing.

He sighs. Knocks once. Twice. No answer. He opens the door anyway.

The Guards stay behind.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him like he’s sealing off a crime scene.

Inside, it’s quiet and warm. The air smells like steam and soap. A changing room, like a gym - benches, lockers, a full-body mirror fogged faintly at the corners. 

She’s sitting on the bench.

Showered. Dressed. Her hair damp, trailing at her shoulders. Her clothes are hers again - not the scratchy cotton uniform of the Games, but soft, intentional things. A white blouse, delicate and feminine, shaped to her body with quiet pride. Black pants, sleek. A single pair of small heels sit by her feet.  She’s putting them on, fastening the strap with practiced fingers.

She is, Gi-hun thinks without shame, a beautiful woman.

And not the kind of beauty that comes from careful paint or presentation, but the kind forged by defiance. By surviving. By shaping herself into something exact, deliberate, true. She is a woman, not because the world allowed it, but because she demanded it. And God, she wears that truth like a blade tucked beneath silk.

“Congratulations… Hyun-ju.”

He hesitates on her name. For a second, he wonders if he should use the number instead. Go back to the script. Stay safe.

But they are alone. And some things deserve names.

She looks at him. Just briefly. Then returns to her task. Adjusting the strap. Tightening the second heel.

Gi-hun shifts, awkward. The words in his head tumble like stones down a hill - sharp, clumsy, loud.

“I just wanted to say… your performance. I mean, in the Tuho round, that shot - it was calculated, brilliant. And earlier, during Pick-Up Sticks, your hands didn’t even tremble. And before that, with the Catch the Flag Game, when you protected your team. That wasn’t strategy, that was leadership. Real leadership-”

His voice is too fast. It sounds rehearsed. Robotic. He knows it. And he hates it.

He tries again. Fails again.

“You held your ground. You… played with integrity. That’s not easy. Not here. You did it with…”

He falters. Scrapes the back of his neck. Swallows.

“I just wanted to acknowledge-”

“Don’t,” she says. A knife, quiet and cold.

He stops. “What?”

“Don’t. Just…stop. Whatever this is. Whatever you’re trying to do.”

Gi-hun falls silent.

She doesn’t want to hear anything from him. He isn’t the man she followed into rebellion, the one who stood up and shouted and bled alongside her. That man is gone. Replaced by this - this pale version. This…representative.

He looks down because he doesn’t know where else to look. But then he sees it again.

Blood.

Jun-hee’s blood, dark now, almost brown. It clings to his sleeve. His collar. The front of his coat like a stain no bleach could remove. A mark of the one who didn’t make it. A silent, horrifying proof that Hyun-ju is the only one left. Out of all the hundreds of them.

The only one.

“Fuck,” he mutters, under his breath.

The script slips from his hands. Whatever words the Front Man fed him dissolve. He looks up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “About Jun-hee. About… all of them. I’m sorry.”

He falters. Tries again.

“I didn’t protect them. I didn’t protect you. I just kept surviving. I don’t know what that makes me now. I-I wanted to be more. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know-how to save anyone. I couldn’t-”

“You’re sorry?”

She stands, slowly, and faces him.

“You’re sorry? That’s what you came here to say?”

He meets her eyes. There’s no rage in them. Not anymore. There’s something worse.

Hate.

Directed not at the system.

At him.

“Hyun-ju…”

She interrupts with a breath that shakes her shoulders.

“You know what happened now when I was showering?” she says, her voice tight, trembling. “I kept repeating it. That moment. Over and over. Every sound. Every second. I couldn’t stop it. Like maybe if I memorized it, it would stop hurting.”

Gi-hun opens his mouth. She’s talking about the hug. The embrace. The thing she saw - him, leaning into the Front Man like a broken thing wanting to be held.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” he says quickly, defensively. “It wasn’t-he just… held me back. I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t mean-”

She laughs. It’s sharp, disbelieving, poisoned.

“Oh, that?  You think I’m talking about you and him?”

He blinks, lost and off balance.

“That was just the cherry on top.”

She takes a step forward, and the air around her feels like static, like something ready to break open.

“You know what it felt like, Gi-hun? Watching you walk into that arena in white, speaking those words like you’d practiced them in your sleep?”

He flinches.

“Like I was watching a ghost. No. Worse. A stranger wearing your skin.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move.

“But that’s not what keeps me up. That’s not what’s stuck in my fucking head.” She taps her temple once, hard. “No. It’s you. Your voice. Your face. Every time I blink, I see you standing there, still and silent, while she-”

Her voice cracks.

“I see her. I see her face. That moment. The way she turned toward you.”

And then - so quiet it’s almost a whisper:

“When I was in that field, after it happened - I kept thinking, it was my fault.”

She doesn’t look at him when she says it. She stares at the mirror. At her reflection.

“I let her go. I let her walk toward you. She touched you, and I thought, That’s it. That’s why they killed her. Because no one was allowed to touch you. Because she made contact.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes. He knows what’s coming.

“But that’s not what happened, was it?” Her voice grows darker. “No. It wasn’t that. They didn’t raise their guns right away. Not then.”

She breathes in through her nose, long and slow.

“It was after she asked about her baby. After she looked at you and said, Thank you.”

Gi-hun’s heart lurches.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” she says, venom now in every word. “But you did something, didn’t you? You looked at her. I didn’t see it. I wasn’t watching you, I was watching her. But something happened. You blinked. You nodded. You breathed the wrong way, I don’t know. But then she smiled.”

Her fists curl.

“And then she died.”

“Hyun-ju, please-”

“Don’t.”

The word is a wall.

“I don’t want your explanations. I want the truth. Was it you?” Then, clearer, like the strike of a match in a room drenched in gasoline, “Did you kill her?”

The word hangs. The word kill is not an accusation. It is a sentence. A sentence that has already been served.

And there is nothing left for Gi-hun to run to. No denial, no justifications. No Front Man to hide behind, no mask to wear, no script to recite. Just a man standing on the edge of what’s left of his soul and finding nothing but ash.

He looks at her. And the grief in his eyes is not enough.

“…Yes.”

The air leaves the room like it's mourning them both.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t sob. She only watches him - like she's looking through him. Like there’s nothing left worth speaking to. He wants her fury. Wants her hands on his throat. Wants her to make it hurt. Because then he might believe he’s still human enough to feel it.

But her stillness is worse. Her silence is execution.

“I hope,” she finally says, not facing him, “that it haunts you.”

A beat.

“I hope her voice follows you into every room. That you hear her when you lie awake. That you see her smile every time you close your eyes. I hope it never lets you sleep again.”

Gi-hun breaks. He tries to speak, to explain. To tell her that he thought it would save her. That he hoped-

But she keeps going.

“So go ahead,” she says, bitter and steady, “Tell me again how sorry you are.”

He doesn’t. He can’t.

Hyun-ju exhales like the air itself is poisoned. Her body folds into itself as she sinks onto the bench behind her. She covers her face with her hands.

Her voice returns, softer, but scorched.

“Jun-hee was supposed to live. Not me. Me?” She laughs bitterly, the sound hollow and dry. “All I have waiting for me is a world that hates me. A society that chews people like me up and spits them out - calls us freaks, calls us confused, calls us things I don’t want to hear ever again.”

Her voice shakes.

“Even if I finish the surgeries… I’ll never belong. Not really.”

She lifts her head and looks at him.

“She was the one with a future,” Hyun-ju continues. “The one who had something left. She had... God, she had him. Her son. A real reason to fight.” Her eyes search his face.  “I presume he’s alive, right? That’s why she smiled.”

Gi-hun nods. And that single motion feels like a confession all its own.

She lets out a breath like a broken dam. “Fuck.”

She stares down at the floor for a long moment.

“Last night, after Geum-ja died. After they took the baby... she made me promise. Said if she didn’t survive, if her son was still breathing somewhere out there, I had to get him back. No matter what. She didn’t even say ‘save him.’ She said ‘take him. Steal him. Rip him from their hands.’”

Her fingers twitch. As if still ready to do it.

“She told me she wanted to call him Myung-gi,” she says, and the name tastes bitter in her mouth. “Can you imagine? Named after that bastard. The father. They reconciled during those two weeks before the Games resumed. I think… she forgave him. And when he died for her in the Fourth Game, that was it. She’d made her choice.”

Her voice softens to something unsteady. Almost reverent.

“She looked at me like she already knew she was going to die. And I - stupid, so fucking stupid - I told her we’d both make it out. That we’d survive. That we’d raise him together.”

She pauses. Her voice cracks.

“But she didn’t believe me. I could see it. Right there, in her eyes. She knew she would never get out of here. She just didn’t want me to know.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightens. Not just from her words, but from the memory she’s digging up, the one he’s tried so hard to bury.

He sees Sae-byeok’s face again - calm, distant, like she’d already made peace with dying. Like she knew she wouldn’t make it out. And she was right.

She always knew.

She made him promise. That if one of them didn’t survive, the other would look after their family. She didn’t say it with hope - she said it like a final request.

“She was so brave.” Hyun-ju continues. “Strong in ways I can’t explain.”

Gi-hun wants to say something. Anything. But his thoughts are cracked glass.

Instead, something shatters inside him.

“I didn’t want her to suffer,” he whispers.

Hyun-ju's head lifts slowly. She stares at him.

“…What did you say?”

Gi-hun’s voice cracks.

“I thought... if I looked at her, if she saw me nod, if she knew her son was alive… maybe it would help. Maybe it would give her peace.”

He swallows.

“I thought… if she died believing he was gone, it would be worse. I thought-” His voice breaks, small and fractured. “-I thought it would be... kinder.”

And the room turns to ice.

Hyun-ju rises. Slowly. Like a storm coming to stand.

“You thought you were being kind?”

He flinches.

“You chose her death,” she hisses. “You timed it.”

He steps back, instinctual.

“You looked at her, and she smiled, and they fired. And you knew. You knew what would happen.”

“I-”

“You decided when it would end for her.”

He can’t breathe.

“What right do you have?” Her voice rises now, shaking. “What right do you have to say when someone lives or dies?”

He doesn’t answer.

“How fast should death come, Gi-hun?” she spits. “Who gave you the right to play god?”

The words hit him like lightning, searing and exact. Because they’re his own. Hurled once at the Front Man in fury and disbelief.

“You like it, don’t you? Sitting there. Holding all the cards. Playing god.”

“Who the fuck made you the one to decide how fast it happens?”

He hears his own voice echo back like a curse.

And he knows. He is no different from the Front Man.

He didn’t become the rebellion. He became the ritual. The costume. The performance. He became the man who wore white while others bled, who nodded when he should’ve screamed, who held mercy like it was a shield while someone else died holding onto hope.

Hyun-ju is still speaking, voice shaking with fury and grief and something wild underneath.

"I would have done anything for her," she hisses, words dripping with anguish. "I would have laid down my life in a heartbeat if it meant Jun-hee could have walked away from that last Game alive."

She pushes him.

“You took that from me!”

She shoves him, hard. Not like she wants to hurt him - but like she wants him to feel it. The loss. The betrayal. The unbearable fact that he still breathes when Jun-hee does not.

He doesn’t fight her. He doesn’t even lift his hands.

Another push, harder this time. His back hits the mirror with a hollow, echoing sound. Cold glass at his spine.

“You stole her choice!”

He wants her to hit him. Wants the glass. Wants the blood. Wants something to match what’s already torn inside.

And then she screams - a raw, soul-splitting sound - and shoves him with both hands.

And the mirror explodes.

It doesn't simply shatter. it erupts, a thunderclap of glass, a scream made of light and edges. It falls around him in sheets, in knives, in glittering wreckage. 

Gi-hun crashes backward in the storm of fractured glass and cold white light. He hits the ground hard, air knocked from his lungs.

And yet, he doesn’t bleed. The shards miss his skin. His face. His throat. Not a scratch. Not a mark.

The glass was supposed to bite. It was supposed to hurt. There should have been blood.

There should have been blood.

But even pain won’t look him in the eye.

He lies still among the broken pieces, silent. Watching the fragments glitter around him like the aftermath of some old war. Everywhere he looks, his face stares back - distorted, multiplied, wide-eyed and wordless. A thousand Gi-huns scattered across the floor, every version of the man who could have made a different choice.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t flinch when her shadow falls over him. He makes no sound, no movement. If she hits him now, he will take it. If she screams, he will let it echo.

Let her rage cut him to the bone - he has nothing left to protect.

But she doesn’t.

He opens his eyes slowly and sees it: the change in her face. The fury curdling into something quieter. Something she didn’t mean to feel.

Regret.

Maybe not forgiveness, or understanding. But regret, raw and sudden and human.

Hyun-ju pulls in a ragged breath, shaking her head slightly as if trying to deny what she's allowed herself to do. Her fists slowly uncurl, hands trembling visibly.

"Gi-hun, I-I didn’t mean-" Her voice cracks, and she reaches out almost instinctively, as if to pull him back from the brink she's pushed him toward. But before her fingertips can reach him, the door bursts open violently.

The Guards move fast - two of them - hands grabbing Hyun-ju by the arms before she even realizes they’re there.

“Wait,” she breathes. “Wait-”

She tries to turn back to him. One foot drags on the floor, heels squealing against the tile.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is strained now. “Gi-hun, I’m sorry-”

The Guards haul her through the doorway, one strap of her blouse slipping down her shoulder, arms twisting in protest but already too late. She disappears from the frame. The door slams shut.

And Gi-hun is alone.

Lying among the glass, surrounded by the thousand versions of himself that shattered before he did.

And then, without quite knowing why, his gaze drops - like the eye finds what the heart doesn’t want to admit it’s searching for.

There. Just beside his leg.

A piece of mirror - no wider than a finger, longer than his palm. Clean along the edge, almost elegant in its symmetry. It catches the light in a way that almost seems intentional.

It’s waiting for him. Or calling to him.

And Gi-hun, broken and emptied and silent, answers.

His foot moves before he can think, slow and quiet, nudging the shard toward him. It glides smoothly across the tile, sliding along the curve of his leg until it rests just beside his hip.

He waits a beat. Listens.

Nothing yet. No one.

He leans, carefully - one hand folding over the glass like it’s a note being passed in class - and draws it close, slipping it into the pocket of his pants. His fingers linger there for a moment, pressing the shape of it flat against his thigh. It feels strangely warm now. Or maybe he is just cold.

The footsteps arrive seconds later.

The door opens without ceremony, and the Guards enter. They don’t ask questions. They don’t speak. One takes his left arm, the other his right, lifting him from the floor. His limbs hang loose, but he doesn’t resist.

And in his pocket, the glass waits.

And he can’t say for certain whether what he’s carrying is a way to leave his cell...

...or a way to never have to.

Notes:

Well.

First off, I hope you liked my drawings hahahaha. I am not an artist (like, at all), but I gave it my best shot. I added the board and the yut sticks so you wouldn’t have to go down a Google rabbit hole mid-chapter, and I tried to track the Players’ positions during the Game so your brain didn’t have to keep doing mental choreography every five seconds. You're welcome :)

 

And as promised, here's my definitely brief and not at all spiraling explanation for the musical piece tied to this chapter.

The final scene of this chapter was written almost entirely while listening to the fourth movement of Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz, “March to the Scaffold.” (or Marche au supplice, because French makes everything sound more doomed).

If you’re unfamiliar: the movement tells the story of a man who, in an opium-fueled nightmare, dreams he’s killed the woman he loves and is now being marched to the guillotine for it. He’s not begging. He’s not resisting. He’s being paraded through the streets, humiliated, condemned, sentenced.

Sound familiar?

That’s Gi-hun, in this final scene. Hyun-ju becomes the embodiment of his sentencing. Jun-hee is the “beloved” he has metaphorically (and perhaps literally) killed. (Also, we can include Jung-bae, “Young-il”, Sang-woo, and like… every other ghost haunting Gi-hun).

 

Let’s break it down:

The opening measures of the movement were the exact tempo and tone I imagined as Gi-hun walks into that room. And oh, the music makes you FEEL that walk. It’s not just a physical entrance; it’s him walking into his sentence.

Then comes the orchestral crescendo, which, if you time it right, hits exactly when Hyun-ju begins cutting him apart with her words. Her voice becomes the judge, jury, and executioner. She doesn’t need a blade - her disbelief is the sentence.

The moment when the orchestra cuts to a full tutti, a single blast of sound (you know, that CRASH), that’s the guillotine. In the scene, I mirrored that moment with the mirror shattering around Gi-hun. Not just glass breaking - his image of himself, his illusion of mercy, everything. Gone in one, loud, final snap.

And then... comes that weirdly beautiful clarinet solo (actually, it happens before the guillotine, but I inverted the order for, you know, narrative reasons). Light. Floating. Unexpected. That’s Hyun-ju softening for just a moment.

The final chords - that eerie spiral before the movement ends? That’s the blade in Gi-hun’s pocket. His unspoken choice. His sentence. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it. Which, ironically, is the choice. He’s walking his own scaffold march now…alone, self-condemned.

Context-wise, the entire Symphonie Fantastique is one of the most gorgeous and unhinged things ever composed. I adore it. I especially love the second movement (the ballroom! the waltz! the obsession!) and the fifth one, a literal Witches’ Sabbath. (Yes, I’m considering using the fifth movement for something planned. Yes, it’s exactly as cursed as it sounds.)

Anyway, if anyone wants a full music-nerd breakdown, feel free to ask in the comments and I will absolutely not be chill about it.

 

Thanks for reading. Thanks for surviving. Love you all<3

Chapter 9

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!

Thank you so much once again for the incredible love you've shown this fic!

As I mentioned previously, I bring you another movement of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. This time, it’s the Fifth Movement. You know, the cursed one I mentioned in the previous chapter notes. Click this link to hear it! If you'd like, you can hit play right at the beginning of the chapter since it's tied to the first scene.

But wait, there’s more! I couldn't stop myself, so there’s another song in this chapter (yes, you read that right, song, not piece). It’s mentioned pretty explicitly in the narrative, so once you get there, go ahead and feel free to click this link.

Look, I know this is turning into a full-on soundtrack for the story, and I'm sorry if it feels like overkill. I will try to calm down with the music in the next chapters, but I really want to know what you think. Should I keep going with this? Let me know!

Anyway, enjoy the chapter! Thank you again for all the support!!

He should be dead.

By every measure that matters - by logic, by punishment, by the weight in his chest like something already buried - he should be gone.

But Gi-hun is not dead.

He is awake, and it’s so much worse than anything death could feel.

He rocks slowly, back pressed to the cold corner of his cell, forehead brushing his knees, arms wrapped tightly around himself like they’re the only thing holding him together.

The shard is still there. Hidden. Pressed between his thigh and calf, cradled in the crook of his left hand the way he learned to hold warmth in the winter when they cut the gas. The edge teases the pad of his thumb every time he twitches. It wants in. It knows him now.

You’re next.

Not a voice. Just a breath in the room that doesn't come from him.

You’re next, you’re next, you’re next -

His wrist tingles. He pictures dragging the shard across it, slow. Diagonal. Elegant. Not messy. Nothing like Jun-hee’s death. A whisper of red, enough to let the guilt out. Not all of it - he couldn’t possibly - but enough. Enough to hush the names for a while.

He jerks out of it. Not because he wants to, but because he has to. His eyes flick across the room, searching for the camera he knows is watching. He’s never seen it. That doesn’t matter. It’s there. Always has been. 

He doesn’t move the shard - can’t risk shifting the wrong way. Can’t risk them seeing the twitch in his leg or the tension in his grip or the slight change in his breath when the edge slides too close.  If they see it, they’ll come.

They won’t let him bleed in peace.

They’d stop him before it gets good.

So instead he bites the inside of his cheek, deep, molars pressing until skin breaks and the taste of iron blooms across his tongue - rich and dark and grounding. His. Still. Something inside him, something no one has stolen yet. He swallows it like proof, like penance.

And he rocks.

Slow. Measured. Forward and back. Back and forward.

A motion that doesn’t ask anything from him but rhythm, a pulse he can match, a tempo that makes him feel less like he’s unraveling and more like he’s still contained. It keeps him tethered. It gives shape to time. It lets him pretend there is something like gravity holding him to the earth. And for a while, it works.

It is enough. For now.

Enough to survive the hour. Enough to survive the minute. Enough to keep the sharp thing a secret.

Until it isn’t.

He’s staring at the floor when the air changes - really changes. Thicker. Electric. Like the moment before a scream.

It’s coming. He knows it. Something is coming.

The light above him blinks once. Then again. Then-

Darkness. Total. Absolute.

One second he’s curled in the corner of his cell, the next - void.

The hum of the room vanishes. The white, the cold, the endless fluorescent buzz, it’s all gone. He can’t even see the walls. He’s floating in black. Blind. Blind and waiting.

He blinks. He thinks he blinks. He can’t be sure. His body feels far away.

Then-

Light. Bright. Blinding. So white it screams. A single, blinding beam that slams down in a perfect circle, pinning him like an insect under glass. It explodes around him, a circle etched in fire.

Gi-hun flinches, throws his hand up to shield his face, feels the shard press tighter into his palm - yes, yes, something real - but when his eyes adjust he realizes he’s not in his cell anymore.

He’s on a stage.

A stage.

Circular. High. Like a pedestal. The kind kings are crowned on. The kind martyrs burn on. The spotlight is on him and only him. There is no shadow, no corner to hide in.

And then he realizes he is standing.

When did he stand?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember pushing up from the floor, doesn't recall the motion, the shift in weight. But he’s upright now, body lit like an actor in a final scene.

He is not alone. He feels it.

What is that, down there? There, where the edge of the stage dissolves into black?

Gi-hun stumbles forward, tentative. The light moves with him, following him like a leash. He reaches the edge and looks down.

Pink.

Rows and rows of them - Guards in that obscene, saturated pink, seated below him in some kind of carved-out pit. Their bodies arranged in a perfect semicircle around a central podium that rises like an altar. The platform he’s on stands behind the pit, raised above it, a theatrical god’s-eye-view.

None of the Guards are looking at him. Instead, they’re looking at the podium in front of them. Waiting.

And further up, beyond the Guards, above them, are the balconies.

Draped in filth and wealth and darkness, the VIPs lounge like gargoyles in masks that grin and leer. One polishes his glass. One laughs without opening his mouth. Another watches through opera glasses, motionless as a corpse.

But beyond even that-

The audience. Seated in perfect rows, too still to be alive. Ali. Ji-yeong. Sae-byeok. Yong-sik. Geum-ja. Min-su. Dae-ho. Young-il. Jung-bae. Jun-hee.

Dead, dead, dead.

Their eyes lock onto his, hollow and full. He stares at them and counts them. He mouths their names without meaning to.

But something is wrong.

Wait.

Wait - no. That’s not all of them. Where is-

He looks again. Harder. Chest tightening. He counts. Again. 

Where is he?

The face that haunted him the most. The one that always burned in the middle of the nightmare.

He should be here. Right at the center. He was always at the center. Why isn’t he here? Why-  

His hands tremble. The shard presses deeper.

Why isn’t he  dead with the rest of them?

Suddenly, there is movement. Below in the pit.

Every Guard stands in unison.

Gi-hun’s gaze is dragged downward again - and freezes.

Because there, in the front row. First seat. First chair.

That’s him.

But he is not wearing pink like the other nor does he have a mask. Just the slate-gray suit Gi-hun hasn’t seen in years, so familiar it makes his stomach turn. His hair is parted clean and soft, brushing across his forehead like it always did.

And those ridiculous glasses.

The ones Gi-hun had teased him about for a year straight, when he first got them. The ones he pushed up the bridge of his nose over and over with that same, stubborn little motion. The ones Gi-hun had once stolen and worn sideways, laughing, until they both wheezed on the grass under the sun.

He looks exactly the same.

No. Worse than that. Better. Alive. Unchanged. Untouched by what came after.

Gi-hun’s knees almost give out.

No no no no no. You don’t belong there. You’re not one of them. You were mine. You were-

You died.

He should be gone, buried in the dirt of that arena, blood slick and eyes fading. He should be with the others - the ones who haunt Gi-hun in his sleep. But he’s not.

He’s here.

And he’s standing like all the others.

He doesn’t look up. None of the Guards do. Their eyes are trained forward, masks or not, every posture turned toward the podium now filling with shadow.

The curtain stirs.

The Guards shift subtly in anticipation. And then, like the air answering its own silence, he enters.

The Front Man.

His boots don’t make a sound as he walks to the podium with the ease of a conductor stepping before a faithful orchestra, head held high, arms folded calmly behind his back. Step by step, he moves with the precision of ceremony. A conductor approaching his orchestra. A priest entering the altar.

The Front Man’s path takes him past the rows of upright Guards. He doesn’t pause for any of them-

Until he reaches him. The man in the glasses.

Gi-hun’s breath catches in his throat.

The Front Man stops turns his body slightly. And then he extends his hand.

And the man accepts.

They shake hands. But not like strangers. Not like superiors and subordinates. Not even like friends.

No - this handshake is measured. Ritualistic. The Front Man’s glove curls gently around that pale, familiar hand like a conductor greeting his first violinist. The man smiles faintly at the Front Man.

And Gi-hun wants to tear them apart.

But he can't move. He can only watch, powerless, as the Front Man clasps that hand, the same hand Gi-hun once gripped in summer heat when they were stupid boys playing at bravery. When they had dared each other to climb the rickety scaffolding near the fields, when he - older by a year, stupid and cocky - had grabbed that little wrist and said, "I'll pull you up, just trust me. I won't let you fall."

That boy had trusted him.

He hadn’t fallen then.

He’s falling now. Because here, the boy is smiling at the wrong man. Smiling the way he once smiled at Gi-hun.

He was supposed to lose him to death. Not to this.

The Front Man finally drops the handshake and approaches the podium. As he passes, every Guard drops into their seat. Including him. Including the boy.

Only Gi-hun remains standing on the raised stage, spotlight hammering down, breath cracking open inside his chest.

It’s only then, when the orchestra of Guards settles like a curtain falling, that the boy – no, the man – finally looks up.

Their eyes lock.

And that damn smile dies instantly. Instead, shame flickers in the twist of his mouth, a silent apology Gi-hun will never hear aloud.

A heartbeat later, the man tilts his head. That familiar tilt, the quick, jerky turn of the head away, in the exact way Gi-hun has seen a hundred times before, looking away like it hurt to keep looking.

Gi-hun wants to lunge across the stage and rip him out of this place, tear him out of this nightmare, hide him behind his back like he once did when they were boys and the bullies circled. He can almost feel that small, trembling hand slipping into his, trusting. Always trusting.

But something stops him before he moves.

A sound. He hears it - faint, wrong.

A clock? No, that’s not it.

Bells.

Wedding bells? No. No. Funeral bells. Yes. That's it. A death toll. For all the dead. For himself.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

His heart clenches against the sound. 

Where are they coming from?

But there’s no time to look - no time to breathe - because the Front Man is already speaking.

“You have been summoned to answer for the lives taken in your name. How do you plead?”

Gi-hun’s throat works. Guilty. Not guilty. Guilty. Not guilty. Neither word will come.

"Look at him," one of the VIP’s sneers. "Doesn't even know which lies to choose."

The bells crash again. Gi-hun flinches at the sound, but no one else moves. No one else seems to hear it.

“Come now," the Front Man murmurs, almost kindly. "We don’t have all night."

Murmurs from the balconies. A low ripple of amusement.

He opens his mouth, closes it again. His knees tremble under the weight of so many watching eyes - the Guards, the VIPs, the dead, the man in the glasses.

"Very well," the Front Man sighs, dramatic and false. "If you cannot plead, we shall plead for you."

The Front Man’s tone has changed. It’s wrong. It’s not the same. It used to be calculating, calm, detached, as if he were playing chess with Gi-hun’s life. Now, there’s an edge - an almost pleasure in it, like a predator enjoying the struggle of a cornered animal. 

"We could start anywhere," he muses, voice light and distant. "So many little graves dug into your hands already."

The bells ring again, louder, as though they’re slamming against his eardrums, relentless. They won't stop.

Gi-hun presses his palms to his ears, but it doesn’t help.

"But fairness demands we begin with the freshest dirt," the Front Man continues mercilessly. "The most recent death at your hands."

A light snaps down from nowhere, pinpoint-bright, illuminating a single face in the audience: Jun-hee. Her eyes stare blankly up at him, empty, unseeing.

Gi-hun jolts visibly, heart slamming against brittle ribs, choking him. "Jun-hee-" he gasps, strangled. "I didn't-she wasn't supposed to-"

"She wasn't supposed to die?" the Front Man finishes, coldly amused. "Yet she did. At your signal, no less."

"I was trying to help!" Gi-hun cries hoarsely, desperate. "She needed to know her baby was alive! She deserved peace!"

Soft laughter trickles down from the balconies, poisonous and mocking. "Hear that," a VIP drawls, amused. "The executioner offering mercy."

Gi-hun shakes his head violently, words ragged. "That wasn't…I didn't choose-"

"But you did," the Front Man interrupts ruthlessly. "You chose precisely when and how she would die. A nod and then a shot in the head - so gentle, wasn't it? Your little act of kindness. A mother's love fulfilled at the last second. How heroic."

"No-" Gi-hun chokes, tears burning sharply. “It’s not like that.”

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, studying him like a pinned insect. “We could end the trial there, really. But it would be unfair, wouldn’t it, to ignore all your other acts of kindness?"

“No, stop-"

“Let’s walk further back, shall we?” the Front Man asks coolly, ignoring Gi-hun’s protests. “Back to the beginning of your grand crusade. The night the lights went out.”

Gi-hun's heart freezes mid-beat.

"Oh, yes," the Front Man continues, soft, lethal, relentless. "What a lovely idea it was, Player 456, to propose a small sacrifice for the greater good. You hid, along with a handful of others, didn't you? While the rest-" his voice trails off, "-the weakest, were left at the mercy of the O Players. Left behind to bleed, to die."

Gi-hun grits his teeth, voice hoarse. “I had to, there was no way to fight-”

“Wasn’t there?” the Front Man murmurs, tilting his head. “If those you hid had fought alongside the others... if you’d banded together... the X’s could have outnumbered the O’s. You could have voted to leave the next day. Saved dozens."

Gi-hun stares at the ground.

“You could have saved lives, Player 456. You could have ended it.”

Each word is a lash across his skin.

“But no,” the Front Man says almost kindly. “You had something bigger in mind, didn’t you? You wanted rebellion. Something grand, heroic.”

The bells are screaming now. DONG. DONG. DONG.

“You staged your desperate little uprising after the massacre in the dormitory, didn't you?” the Front Man continues. “Tore the guns from the Guards’ hands. Dreamed of storming the operating room. Ending the Games in a blaze of glory.”

Gi-hun’s throat closes.

Another spotlight snaps on, blindingly bright, illuminating two more faces in the silent audience: Jung-bae, Young-il. Their eyes empty, bruised, accusatory.

Gi-hun's chest clenches so painfully he doubles over, clutching his sides, breath ragged.

“They died for you,” the Front Man says quietly. “For your rebellion.”

Gi-hun stumbles back a step. "I - I had to stop the Games from the inside! If we just left, if we just voted to leave, it would never end."

The Front Man laughs softly.

"You led them into death because you wanted to feel like you were fighting," he says. "You dragged them along because you couldn’t bear to admit that you were helpless."

Gi-hun shakes his head. "I risked everything-"

"For what?" the Front Man cuts in, sharp and vicious. "For a stage. For an audience."

"No!" Gi-hun cries, voice hoarse. "I never…I didn’t-"

The Front Man's voice dips to something cold and cruel. "Oh? You didn't act for yourself?" he asks lightly. "Not even once?"

"No!"

Gi-hun stares at Young-il, Jung-bae - men who trusted him, men he promised safety, strength, victory - now just empty shells staring lifelessly back.

The Front Man watches him with something approaching cold pity.  "Still pretending it wasn't about you, I see. Still trying to believe your motives noble. But shall we speak now of something more telling? A clearer example, perhaps, of your vanity?"

Gi-hun trembles, confusion flickering through his mind. "Vanity? No, I never-"

"The Recruiter," the Front Man interrupts smoothly. "Your little game of Russian roulette."

Gi-hun freezes. The bells go silent, just for a heartbeat.

"What...?" he breathes. "How-" his voice catches. "How do you know?"

But of course, he thinks suddenly, heart sinking. Of course.

Of course none of this is real.

The court, the Guards, the Front Man - the bells pounding in his skull.

Which means...

Gi-hun’s gaze snaps to the man in the glasses standing silent among the Guards.

Which means he isn’t real either.

The Front Man watches him steadily, almost amused. “Ah,” he says softly. “You see it now.”

Gi-hun’s stomach twists. 

The Front Man tilts his head slightly, that awful imitation of concern. “And yet, even knowing this, you still struggle to absolve yourself.”

Gi-hun stiffens. His mouth goes dry.

"You remember, don't you?" the Front Man says, stepping slowly across the stage, each footfall striking like a hammer. "The Recruiter. The revolver. The slow, sweet click of an empty chamber against your skull.”

Gi-hun’s nails dig into his palms. The shard is still there. Waiting. Breathing with him.

"If you truly wanted to save anyone," the Front Man continues, voice almost tender, "you would have done the simple thing. You would have shot him. Ended it. Or tried reason. Conviction. Anything but that sick, self-indulgent game."

Gi-hun sways on his feet, dizzy. "I didn’t-"

"You sat there and risked everything, for what?” the Front Man asks, slicing through the lie before it can even form. “To feel alive. To prove to yourself you still mattered. That you weren’t just a failure rotting quietly under the weight of everyone you’d ever disappointed."

"No," Gi-hun rasps, but it's weak, a whisper even he doesn't believe.

"You craved the thrill," the Front Man says. "The high. The purpose. The beautiful lie that you were fighting something bigger than yourself."

"No-"

"You weren't there to save anyone. You weren’t trying to stop the Games.” A pause, deliberate. "You wanted to feel important. Brave. Special."

"I was trying to stop it!" he chokes out. "I was!"

The Front Man tilts his head, as though amused by his futile denial. "Were you?"

The bells crash again. Dong. Dong. Dong.

"Tell me, Player 456," the Front Man murmurs. "Was it the system you wanted to destroy? Or the fear inside you that you were nothing without it?"

The shard shakes between Gi-hun’s fingers. He lifts it slowly, holding it before him, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the cracked glass: hollow eyes, dried blood on his neck, a man he no longer knows.

This is his verdict.

Not the court’s.

Not the Front Man’s.

His.

The Front Man watches him from the podium, head tilting just slightly, like he already knows what’s coming. Like he’s waiting for it.

"Yes. The shard," he says, voice curling in the cold air. "A sentence you can deliver yourself. Or… you could have another way out."

Gi-hun’s stomach twists.

"You could have purpose," the Front Man says, softer now, too soft. "You could have power. You could have peace. Here. With me."

It’s ridiculous.

It’s disgusting.

And it still feels good to hear.

Gi-hun closes his eyes without meaning to, just for a second, lets the words slip under his skin, because God, he’s so tired of fighting. Tired of hurting. Tired of carrying a graveyard on his back. The audience. All of them.

Dead because he wasn’t fast enough. Smart enough. Good enough.

Maybe it would be easier to believe it was always going to end like this. That he was never anything but another piece of the machine. Another monster in the making.

He could step forward. Let the Front Man’s hand close around his. Stop pretending he’s any different.

But the shard is already in his hand.

And dying still feels cleaner than saying yes.

Gi-hun lifts it to his throat.

The glass is cold, steady, a better promise than any he’s heard in a long time. He presses it right over the artery, feels the beat of it against the blade - wild, frantic, terrified.

Just do it, he thinks. End it before you fall even further. Before you say yes to something you can’t take back.

And then- the memory.

The wet sand, the blood, the rain. The way his childhood friend lifted the knife to his own throat. The blade cutting through flesh, the blood, the quiet. The silent end.

And now, standing here in this theater, this stage that isn’t real, he realizes he’s about to do the same thing. Just like him. But something feels off, something gnawing deep inside. He lowers the shard slightly.

This is wrong, he thinks, this is all wrong.

Gi-hun jerks his head up, instinctive, like his heart can’t beat without knowing.

And there, in the front row, while the rest of the Guards stare at the podium, the man in the glasses is already looking back at Gi-hun. Eyes wide, pleading, silently screaming at him not to do it.

Gi-hun knows it’s in his head. This stage, this spectacle, it’s all a lie. A hallucination. But why, then, did his mind put that man - that face - in the front row? Why did he place him next to the Guards, the ones who have no names, the ones who were meant to remain faceless? Why did that man shake the Front Man's hand?

And suddenly he thinks-

No.

Not yet.

He will not die like this. Not until he understands. Not until he knows if the boy who trusted him is still out there. He won't let himself die, not while there’s a chance - no matter how small - that the truth might still be waiting.

And there’s more. He owes it to the dead - every single one of them. He owes them this fight.

Slowly, deliberately, Gi-hun lowers the shard from his neck. He meets the Front Man’s gaze directly now.

“You almost had me believing it,” he says softly. “that we’re the same. But you’re wrong.”

The Front Man waits silently, observing him closely.

“You almost had me believing that I’m already like you.”

His voice cracks.

“You wanted me to think I’m broken, that killing’s the only way to survive. That if I’m a monster, your own sins aren’t sins at all - they’re just what happens when you’re forced to play the game. But that’s bullshit.”

He takes a breath, ragged but full of resolve, feeling strength return with each word he shapes from his pain.

"You want me to accept your logic," Gi-hun continues fiercely, the shard trembling slightly in his grip, "but it’s empty logic. A coward’s excuse. Because if cruelty can be justified, then it has no consequence, no weight. But I see the consequence every time I close my eyes. Every face. Every death. They haunt me, because I refuse to justify them."

The bells finally fade into silence, leaving only Gi-hun’s uneven breathing echoing in the empty air.

"You want me broken because you are broken," Gi-hun whispers harshly. "But I'm not you. I never will be. You chose this. You built a kingdom out of graves, crowned yourself in blood, and called it strength. But strength isn't numbness. Strength isn't killing without remorse. Strength is bearing the pain and still standing."

His eyes blaze now, fierce and wounded and defiant.

"You can call me weak," Gi-hun says, "you can call me selfish, or broken. Maybe I am. But I'm still breathing, still standing here. And as long as I breathe, as long as my heart beats, your lies have no power over me."

He lifts his head, gazing defiantly at the Front Man, the monster who once almost seduced him into believing they were the same.

"I won't die," Gi-hun whispers harshly, fiercely, to the silence, to the ghosts, to himself. "Not until I’ve given meaning to every death I carry. Not until every sacrifice matters.”

His eyes lock on the Front Man’s. He’s had enough of being broken. He’s had enough of pretending he doesn’t have the power to end this.

"I’ll burn this place down. I’ll tear this place apart with my last breath if I have to.”

He points the hand holding the shard toward the Front Man

“And you’ll burn with it, and I’ll make damn sure you never get another soul to break. Not on my watch.”

He gasps as the words rip from him, lungs starved, chest heaving. For a heartbeat, he feels nothing but a deafening pulse hammering at his throat, wild, unsteady, too human for the monster the Front Man wants him to become.

He looks again at the man in the first chair, desperate for something - recognition, redemption, forgiveness. The man in the glasses stares back, eyes shining, and there - there is the faintest curl at the corner of his lips, a quiet smile, a gentle nod of pride.

Gi-hun’s chest swells, his own lips twitching, ready to mirror the smile back-

But then the world fractures.

A thunderous roar erupts, and the theater begins to shatter around him. Splintering glass screams, metal bends with a shriek of agony. He whips around wildly as the velvet curtains burst into ashes, the VIPs’ masks dissolve into smoke, the Guards crumble like statues made of sand. The dead vanish silently, dissolving into whispers he cannot grasp.

The Front Man’s figure disintegrates, smoke-black robes melting into shadow.

Gi-hun’s heart hammers wildly as everything collapses into darkness, into nothingness. He whirls desperately back toward the man in the glasses, heart in his throat.

“No!” he screams, reaching, desperate.

But it’s too late.

The man is the last one to disappear, lingering for a heartbeat longer, eyes soft, smiling faintly, before vanishing into silent oblivion.

 

Gi-hun gasps awake on the cold floor of his cell, his body flinching like he’s just hit the ground from a long fall.

The light above buzzes sterile and indifferent. The air tastes wrong. Everything is wrong.

He scrambles up, back hitting the wall hard. His eyes flick wildly around the room, frantic.

Where is he? Where is the man?

But the cell is empty.

There’s only Gi-hun.

There’s only the shard, warm and secret in his hand.

There’s only the taste of blood in his mouth and the roaring certainty in his head.

He knows what he has to do.

 

 

In his dream, the Front Man had tried to box him in. Two choices. Death or obedience. Surrender or survival. As if the world could be drawn in such pathetic lines. As if Gi-hun could be reduced to something that simple.

But he knows better now.

There is a third way.

A way they don't expect.

Gi-hun drags his gaze slowly across the cell, seeing it differently now - not as a tomb, but as a battlefield. Every wall, every crack, every blind corner humming with possibility. The shard still presses against his thigh, humming with heat, like it knows too, like it’s waiting.

Escape.

He sees it so clearly it almost hurts.

He can find Jun-ho. He can tell him everything. He can lead his crew back to this island and tear this rotting empire down to its bloodied foundations.

He can make them hurt like he’s hurt.

He can make them pay.

The first impulse, the first stupid impulse, is to think he could fight his way out next time they drag him before the Front Man. But he dismisses it with a snarl.

It’s suicide. He’s never alone. Always two Triangles, rifles loaded, and a Square hovering like a vulture. He’d be stopped before he crossed the threshold.

The same goes for any time they move him. Always surrounded. Always controlled.

No.

His best shot is in here. In this room. With the Circles.

The Circle Guards - the ones who bring the food, who swagger and laugh like boys poking a dog through a fence - they always come in. They like to play with him, shove the food in front of him like he’s nothing, sometimes kick it closer, smirking behind their masks. They treat him like an animal because they think he’s already lost. They enjoy it. They come close enough to touch him.

But the doubt creeps in anyway, clawing at the edges of his mind - what if, this time, they don't?

What if they decide to stand by the door, bored of the game? What if they finally treat him like a corpse, not even worth a look?

And he can’t risk waiting by the door, can’t risk standing in plain view like a man about to spring. The cameras are always watching - silent, unseen, merciless - and standing near the door would scream intent. It would look wrong, suspicious. 

He clenches his fists, fighting the panic. He can’t leave it to chance. He has to make them act.

Slowly, carefully, with the kind of ruthless calm that only comes from standing too long at the edge of ruin, Gi-hun drags himself to the farthest corner of the cell, curling his body up tightly against the cold wall. He draws his legs in, folding himself small, making himself a picture of weakness, of final surrender.

Then he lifts the mirror shard into the faint light.

He shows them. Wherever the cameras are - and he knows they're there - he shows them.

He lets them see their mistake. The prisoner's secret weapon. The tiny sliver of rebellion they failed to rip from him.

And then, without hesitation, he rolls up his left sleeve, baring his forearm to the cold air. He presses the shard against the skin and draws.

The cut is long, ugly, and sings through his nerves with bright white pain. Blood wells up instantly, dark and rich, pouring down his arm like a river unleashed. It falls in heavy drops to the floor, soaking the thin fabric of his pants, puddling between his feet.

It looks bad.

It looks catastrophic.

Good.

Let them think it’s worse than it is.

He slumps back against the wall, blood staining the tiles beneath him, his head sagging forward like a puppet cut loose from its strings. His breathing slows deliberately, every inhale shallower than the last, until even the slight rise and fall of his chest becomes almost invisible.

From the cameras' view he knows how it will look.

He looks unconscious, probably dead. A broken, bleeding thing sprawled in the corner, abandoned by the will to live.

They won't be able to resist it.

They’ll come.

They’ll have to come.

And when they do - when they step inside, when they cross that invisible line thinking he’s already finished - he’ll be waiting.

The shard slips from his bloody fingers and rests, half-hidden, on the floor beside him. A trap in plain sight. His blood pools wider, soaking into the cracks between the tiles.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, lets his body go limp, every muscle slackening.

And waits.

But waiting, he realizes almost too late, comes with its own kind of agony. The pain in his arm grows sharper first - not the clean, immediate kind of a cut, but the deep, slow hurt of exposed nerves and spilling blood.

It burns. It burns worse than anything, an ache that wraps all the way up his shoulder and into his chest, making his heart pound in erratic, terrified bursts.

His fingers are starting to go numb, curling slightly without his permission. His breathing slows, but not because he wants it to - because something in his body is slipping. Something is tipping inside him, and for one horrifying moment, Gi-hun feels it: the edges of his consciousness crumbling away.

Stay awake.

Stay alive.

But his own thoughts are getting harder to hear, harder to obey. He forces his eyelids to stay closed even as black spots dance behind them. He feels lightheaded, untethered, floating a few inches above his body.

He’s scared. He hadn’t accounted for how much blood there would be. He hadn’t accounted for how fragile he really was.

Stay awake. Stay awake.

Then, just as the last scrap of will is slipping from his grip, the door hisses open.

It’s so soft he almost misses it, but he catches it the rush of colder air hitting the blood-warm cell, the faint click of boots on tile. Instinct fights him, begs him to open his eyes wide, to move, to fight now, but he resists. Instead, he lets his lashes lift just the tiniest fraction, enough to catch a blurred glimpse through a sliver of vision.

Two figures.

Two.

Panic clamps around his chest.

No.

No, no, no. He wasn’t expecting two. One was already too much. His mind races, trying to find any explanation, any justification. He hadn’t thought it through - he didn’t think they’d send two. Why two? How many does it take to check on a prisoner’s vitals?

But here they are: two figures.

Two pink suits, standing over him like vultures picking apart a fresh corpse.

One of them shifts closer. Through the blur, he recognizes the first one - the way he stands, the lazy slouch, the cruel little kick he gives to Gi-hun’s foot with the tip of his boot.

He knows this man. It’s the same bastard who found the tuna can and the packet of biscuits, the one who had patted Gi-hun's head like a fucking dog, laughing at his humiliation.

Gi-hun’s gut coils in disgust at the memory.

The Guard snickers now.

"Boss is gonna lose his shit," he says, voice muffled only slightly by the mask, thick with amused disdain. "Look at you, trying to off yourself like some useless bitch. Thought you were tougher than that, 456."

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move. He keeps himself slack, keeps his breathing shallow enough to pass for death, even as rage flares hot under his skin.

The Guard crouches slightly, getting a better look.

"When they stitch you back up," he mutters, almost laughing, "maybe he’s gonna like you even more. Probably gonna keep you on a leash by the end of the week." He chuckles, disgusting, cruel, and turns to the other figure. "What d'you think, huh? Bet he'll make him bark for scraps."

The Guard’s foot nudges Gi-hun’s leg again, harder this time.

The second figure - the other Circle Guard - stands stiffly near the door. Silent. Watching. Nervous.

Gi-hun can feel it. The difference. The way the second Guard’s hands twitch. The way his head shifts slightly, unsettled.

It’s him.

His ghost.

His Circle Guard.

“You hear me?” the first Guard continues. “Boss is gonna be pissed. You’re a damn disappointment. Maybe we can-”

Then he stills. There’s a pause. The man’s posture shifts just slightly, unease crackling in the silence.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly less cocky. “Hey, he’s not moving.” He leans closer.  “I-shit. Maybe he’s already dead.”

The tension in the room shifts. The second Circle Guard - the quieter one, the one who has hovered uncertainly at the edge of the blood puddle - steps forward. His voice trembles slightly when he speaks.

“Let me check his vitals,” he says urgently, stepping closer. “Let me-”

“No,” the first one snaps. "No fucking way. You’ll screw it up. Stand back."

Gi-hun’s fingers inch closer to the shard on the floor, the motion so small it would take a microscope to catch it. The glass kisses the tip of his finger, cold and patient.

The first Circle Guard leans down, careless and cruel, reaching out. "Fuckin' waste of oxygen anyway.”

He leans in, two fingers stretching out to Gi-hun’s throat, aiming lazily for his pulse point, fully expecting to feel nothing but stillness.

But he feels it. The faint, defiant flutter of life under Gi-hun’s skin.

The Guard tilts his head, confused.

And that’s when Gi-hun strikes.

His hand snaps up with brutal precision, the shard slicing the air faster than thought. He drives it straight into the soft meat of the Guard’s throat, just under the chin, right where the fabric of the collar thins, where skin meets mask.

The glass tears through flesh with a wet, sickening crunch, the Guard’s body jerking violently as blood erupts in a hot spray.

Gi-hun doesn’t stop - he rips the shard sideways, sawing through muscle and windpipe in one furious, blood-slicked motion.

The Guard gurgles, hands scrabbling at his neck, but it’s already too late. His body crumples forward, heavy and useless, and Gi-hun shoves it off with a savage grunt, sending the dying man crashing into the second Circle Guard with a horrifying, wet thump.

The second Guard staggers backward, arms tangled in the dead weight, the body sliding down with a grotesque, boneless squelch as it hits the floor. Gi-hun watches it fall, hears the sick slap of it against the tiles, the last breath rattling wetly out of its torn throat.

And then-

Stillness.

The second Circle Guard freezes. Doesn’t call for backup. He just stands there, staring at Gi-hun.

Gi-hun stares back, breath ragged, heart hammering, blood dripping from the shard in his hand. There’s hesitation in the Circle Guard’s posture - real, shaking hesitation. He should be attacking. He should be screaming for help. He should be dragging Gi-hun back down to the floor, ending this before it begins.

But he doesn’t.

And Gi-hun - God, he wants so badly to rip the mask off, to see the face underneath, to ask, to beg, to demand, to know-

But there’s no time.

There’s no time for ghosts.

Without a word, Gi-hun spins toward the open door, blood splattering from his arm as he goes, and bolts into the hallway beyond.

Running.

Running like hell.

Running like a man who has nothing left to lose but the war he’s just declared.

His feet slam against the floor, slick with his own blood. His vision wavers.

Everywhere he looks is white. Endless white. Corridors that stretch and bend and twist, looping him deeper inside the machine.

He presses his bloody hand against the wound on his arm, fingers slipping in the wetness. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he presses harder anyway. He switches the shard into that same hand, now sticky and soaked, and stumbles forward.

Then- a sound. A sudden, piercing wail cuts through the silence.

A scream.

No. A siren.

It starts as a high, vibrating note, like a violin string pulled too tight - and then it floods the corridor, screeching across the tiles.

The overhead lights shift from cold white to harsh, sickly red.

His feet falter for half a second. And then that voice. That cold, perfect, robotic voice that means the island is awake and watching:

“Attention. All soldiers. Immediate mobilization. D-4 Sector of North Wing compromised. Locate Player 456. Capture alive. Repeat: Player 456 has escaped. Capture alive.”

Gi-hun’s head snaps up, wild with panic.

D-4. He doesn’t know where that is. It doesn’t mean anything. They built this place to be a maze, and now he’s running through it blind, leaving a trail of himself behind. His blood hits the floor as he sprints, drops painting a crimson path behind him. It’s on the walls, on the corners, on the goddamn flooring - he’s bleeding too fast. His arm is shaking. His head is spinning.

And where the fuck is outside?

Where is anything?

He’s run these halls before, hundreds of times, but blindfolded. Always blindfolded. The world has no shape. He turns a corner and then another, but the corridors loop and spiral, and everything looks the same. The corners of his vision blacken.

His thoughts slam together in chaos: left, no, straight, stairs. Up - no, fuck, down-wait…cameras-

Cameras.

He looks up and nearly chokes on his own breath.

They’re moving with him. Every corner, every hallway, the mechanical eyes follow.

He’s never been out of their sight. Never. Not for a second.

They’ll corner him. They’ll close in and pin him like a rat.

Gi-hun spins again, another turn, another burst of pure fear running down his spine, and suddenly-

Color.

A blue hallway. With branching paths ahead. One to the left. One to the right.

And a camera right above them both, turning slow, smooth, following him like it’s waiting to judge which way the prey will go.

Gi-hun skids to a stop, chest heaving, pulse in his throat.

Something flickers in his memory. 

There. On the wall. While he was running-

An electric panel.

Okay. Okay. Think. What can this do?

If he cuts the power, if he hits the right wires - maybe, just maybe, he can kill the cameras, the doors, the lights - anything that gives him even five minutes of confusion.

He spins back, spots it. He practically throws himself at the wall, yanks the panel door open with shaking fingers, and jams the tip of the shard inside like a blade into a wound.

Sparks burst. Wires pop. Something cracks.

He stabs again.

And again.

He wants it dead. Blind. Helpless.

The camera flickers. Then goes still.

Dark.

“Yes yes yes,” he breathes, laughing like a madman, dizzy from blood loss and the joy of one small win.

He can fool them. Misdirect. Trick them into looking where he isn’t.

He stumbles up, back toward the branching halls.

He turns to the corridor on the left and exposes his arm again. Blood hits the floor, splash after splash, ugly and wet. He drags a soaked palm along the wall, thick red streaks following behind him.

Let them follow this.

Let them chase shadows.

He spins to the other corridor. The right one.

But something catches in his peripheral vision.

Up there.

An air vent.

It’s reachable - barely - just above a tangle of overhead pipes crawling along the wall like metal vines.

That’s it. That’s his way out.

He zips his jacket up, fast, one-handed, tight around the wound to hide the worst of the red.

Then he grabs the lowest pipe and hauls himself upward.

Every muscle screams. His body is not made for this anymore - not after everything they’ve done to him, not after the blood - but he climbs.

He hears footsteps.

“Shit,” he whispers through clenched teeth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

He climbs faster, forces the panic down, nearly drops the shard in the scramble. He shoves it into his mouth, between his teeth, and yanks the vent open with both hands. It groans. He’s sure it echoes across the entire fucking wing.

He pulls himself in, half-falling, half-dragging his weight forward. He curls into the space just as-

They arrive.

Six sets of boots, right below.

Five Triangle Guards. One Square.

"There!" one of the Triangle Guards shouts, pointing down the blood-smeared corridor. "He went that way!"

Gi-hun presses his hand over his mouth, barely breathing, heart slamming into his ribs like a wild animal. His back is pressed to the cold metal of the vent, his legs curled awkwardly beneath him. If they look up - if they glance even slightly above their heads-

"Don’t just stand there! Move!" barks the Square. "Four on the left, one with me – we need to check the other hall, make sure he didn’t double back. GO!"

Gi-hun stays perfectly still, one hand clamped to his mouth, the other squeezing the shard so hard his knuckles go white.

They’re leaving.

They’re leaving.

He waits, counts heartbeats in the dark.

One.

Two.

Three.

Gone.

He sags in relief, his head dropping against the metal, sweat pouring down his neck. He blinks fast. Breathes. Lives.

But then, another sound.

Another footstep.

No. No no no.

He turns, eyes wide, terrified, and sees the figure step quietly into the hall.

Blood-stained pink uniform.

His Circle Guard.

Gi-hun goes cold. Not again. Not now.

The Circle Guard doesn’t follow the Triangle Guards. He doesn’t even move toward the trail.

He just…stands there.

Then slowly, like he’s been searching the room piece by piece, the Guard’s head tilts up toward the vent.

Gi-hun panics again, covers his mouth. 

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t let him see.

The Circle Guard stares for a long, long moment. He steps closer to the wall, eyes scanning, tracking. And then he sees it.

A single drop.

Just a drop of blood clinging to the pipe under the vent.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Gi-hun presses himself against the metal, holding his breath so tight it hurts.

The Guard looks up again and straightens, slowly.

And then walks the other way. The way Gi-hun came from.

Gi-hun holds still for a long, long moment. Not breathing. Not blinking. Every muscle locked tight in a silent, shivering question:

Why?

Why didn’t he alert them?

Why didn’t he follow?

Why is he protecting him?

Then, slowly, he collapses silently against the vent wall.

He doesn't know what that was. Mercy? A mistake? Some sick game?

Every thought in his head is flashing red, over and over, like the lights that had chased him through the corridors. Nothing is stable. Nothing is real. Except the pain in his arm. Except the shard still clenched in his shaking fist. Except the need to keep going.

He drags himself forward again. Crawling. Dragging himself belly-first down the tunnel, elbows burning, knees catching on every seam of metal.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

Every turn in the vent feels like a guess made under pressure, like betting your life on a coin toss you can't see.

Sometimes he catches slivers of the world below through grates in the floor - Triangle Guards in formation, barking orders, running hard in the opposite direction. That’s good. That’s something. It means his blood trail is working. It means the trick is still holding.

He keeps going until the space opens slightly - just enough to crouch instead of crawl. Between two branching ducts, he curls into himself and slumps against the metal, body shaking, dizzy from blood loss and fear.

He unzips his jacket with trembling hands, grimacing as the sticky fabric peels away from the wound.

God. His shirt is soaked.

He doesn’t think. He rips the lower half of his white shirt with his teeth, tearing the fabric into a makeshift bandage. It’s clumsy. Bloody. He wraps it around his arm, tight as he can manage, using his teeth to knot it off.

The blood seeps through almost instantly.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

But it’s all he has.

He pulls the jacket back over it, zips up to his throat, clenches his teeth, and crawls again. No time to sit. No time to bleed.

The metal groans under him. His arms burn. His knees scrape. The air is stale, thin, choked with heat and dust, and his lungs can barely pull it in anymore.

But then-

Light.

A different light. Not the red glow of alarm lamps. Not the cold fluorescence of interior corridors. 

Brilliant. Silver. Blue. Alive.

Outside.

Gi-hun gasps, surges forward on instinct. He scrapes his knees raw and pushes himself faster, toward the light, toward the hope that maybe, maybe, maybe-

He peeks out of the vent cover. Squints. Nothing but concrete. No Guards. No patrol. Just a bare rooftop, empty and exposed.

He doesn’t wait. He shoves the vent open and climbs out, half-falling onto the rooftop and nearly sobs.

He sucks in a deep breath, and the air tastes cold and clean and alive. He stumbles forward, legs unsteady, and looks around.

A wide, open terrace stretches out before him - gray concrete, industrial edges, nothing but wind and space. The vent he crawled from is tucked into the wall of a taller building, set above the terrace floor. Gi-hun blinks, adjusts. Then walks forward. And stops.

Ocean.

Far off in the distance, past dense jungle-green cliffs, is the ocean. Glittering. Endless. Blue like freedom. The sound of distant birds rides the wind. Trees sway just beyond the perimeter.

Somewhere – somewhere - they must have boats. Supplies. A way off this island.

He just has to get there.

But the terrace is high. Maybe five stories. He looks down, scanning for stairs, a ladder, anything. His eyes dart along the perimeter - no railing, no obvious descent. There has to be a way down.

He steps closer to the edge, chest pounding- and hears it.

A door slams shut behind him.

He turns slowly, blood roaring in his ears.

And there he is. The Circle Guard.

Stepping onto the terrace from a squat gray door, one of those industrial ones that lead to stairwells. Blood still smeared across his chest from the body Gi-hun left behind.

He knew.

He knew where Gi-hun was headed.

He let the others run wild in the halls, and he walked straight here.

Gi-hun’s heart flatlines for a beat, then slams back to life.

Of course he knew. It was understanding. Instinct. He didn’t follow Gi-hun into the vent because he didn’t need to. He already knew where it led.

Because any animal in a trap runs toward the light. Toward the outside.

They just stand there for a moment. Gi-hun frozen. The Guard still.

Then Gi-hun turns and starts searching again, frantic. He can’t afford to look at him. Can’t afford to hope. Maybe he’s on his side. He let Gi-hun go before. He didn’t raise the alarm. Or maybe he’s part of the machine.

It doesn’t matter. He needs stairs. A rope. Something.

He can feel the Circle Guard’s eyes on him, burning through the back of his head. Still, he doesn’t move. He just stands there.

Gi-hun keeps scanning for stairs. Yes. Keep moving. Don’t give him reason to stop you.

He’s on your side. He’s on your side. He’s on your side.

But there’s nothing. No stairs. No escape. Just smooth concrete and the long drop to the forest below him.

Gi-hun turns back and takes a shaky step toward the Circle Guard.

“Please,” he says. “Help me. Please. I-I don’t know how to get down. You know this place. You know it better than me. Just, just help me. Please.”

The Guard remains silent.

Gi-hun takes another step. His eyes shine now, wild and desperate. “You’re not like them. I know you’re not.”

He won’t say the name. But he sees him. Every time he looks at that Guard. Every movement. Every hesitation. He knows.

The Guard flinches. Almost imperceptibly.

Gi-hun sees it.

“Yes,” he presses, stepping closer. “You know me. I know you do. I don’t care who you are - if you’re him, or not, or just someone like him. You wouldn’t hurt me. I know that. Please. Please. You can help me.”

He stretches his arm out. The wounded one. The one still soaked in blood, wrapped in the torn white of his shirt, fingertips trembling. It’s not a weapon now. It’s an invitation. An open, shaking plea.

Take it. Please. Just take it.

“We can get out of here. Both of us.”

Slowly, silently, the Circle Guard lifts his hand.

Gi-hun watches it rise, watches it approach, fingers curled loosely at first. For one terrible, beautiful second, Gi-hun thinks he’s going to take it - take his hand, like he did in the bathroom. He remembers that moment so vividly: the soft pressure of a gloved palm over his own fingers, the silent, steady warmth beneath all that mask and distance, the way he hadn’t pulled away.

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

He’s going to take it. He’s going to grab Gi-hun’s hand, pull him away, run with him, choose him. Like he should have from the start.

The fingers lower. Hover close to his own.

Closer.

Closer.

Almost-

But instead, the hand drops to the belt and pulls something free.

Gi-hun’s mouth goes dry. His body doesn’t move.

The Guard lifts the communicator.

“Player 456 located. Terrace of A-3 Sector. Repeat: Player 456 located.”

The voice is flat, final, like a guillotine dropping.

Gi-hun stares at him. His hand is still stretched out, hanging in the air like a question that’s already been answered.

And the answer is no.

He watches his own hand trembling there, the blood still sliding down his palm like tears. Useless. Rejected.

He can’t even feel it anymore.

Just the cold.

And even then - even now - he still can’t bring himself to hurt the Guard.

Gi-hun lowers his arm slowly and takes one shuddering step back.

Then two.

“I...” His voice dies in his throat.

Then-

He runs. Desperately. Blindly. Painfully.

He turns and bolts toward the stairwell door - the same one the Circle Guard came from. Maybe he still has time. Maybe they’re slow. Maybe they’ll think it was a false report. Maybe-

Maybe.

He slams the door open, takes the stairs two at a time, stumbling, nearly falling, catching himself on the railing. His heart is breaking itself apart in his chest. Every beat screams why.

He hits the final step, turns the corner and-

A rifle. Pointed right at his face.

A Triangle Guard. Standing at the base of the stairs.

“Hands behind your head.”

Gi-hun doesn’t hear him. Not really. Not above the roar in his head. Not above the sound of the Circle Guard’s voice playing over and over in his memory.

That voice.

That voice saying ‘Player 456 located’ like it meant nothing.

Like Gi-hun meant nothing.

His brain doesn’t register the gun. Doesn’t register the command.

He just keeps seeing that hand, almost holding his.

“HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!”

Gi-hun jerks like a man waking from a nightmare. Slowly, like it’s not really his body anymore, he lifts his arms. Blood smears the side of his face as his sleeve brushes against it.

“Turn around.”

He does.

One of his hands still clutches the shard.

The Triangle rips it from his grip with brutal force, throwing it to the floor where it skitters across the tile.

"On your knees."

Gi-hun obeys.

Then the Guard moves fast, yanking Gi-hun’s arms behind his back with all the care of a butcher stringing meat.

Agony.

A white-hot scream of pain surges from Gi-hun’s arm - the wound tearing wider, bandage unraveling like the last shreds of trust he had left.

The cuffs come after, cold and merciless, locking his wrists together, trapping his shattered hope inside his chest.

The Guard lifts his communicator, voice flat and mechanical. "Player 456 secured. Terrace apprehension successful. Preparing for return."

The last thing Gi-hun sees is the shard on the floor. A sliver of light. A lie he almost believed.

And then - nothing. Just black.

 

 

The blindfold rips off, and light slams into Gi-hun’s eyes. He blinks rapidly, disoriented, and realizes with a sick drop of his stomach where he is.

The Front Man’s quarters. Again.

And there he is. Already standing in front of him.

Like he knew Gi-hun wouldn’t be able to escape.

Like he never had a doubt.

Gi-hun’s eyes meet the black void of the mask. The Front Man just watches him - patient, composed, quiet in a way that feels worse than shouting.

Gi-hun feels like he’s looking into a mirror that reflects everything wrong with him. All the hate, all the failure, all the moments he thought he was clawing his way to freedom when really he was being led in circles like a dog on a leash.

The ache in his arm is unbearable now. Blood’s dried in a crust inside his jacket, the pain pulsing with every heartbeat like something alive.

The Front Man’s gaze drops. He takes in the ruined bandage, the stain spreading, the way Gi-hun’s breath hitches. Then, with deliberate calm:

“Remove the cuffs.”

The Triangle hesitates. “Sir, after what he just...are you sure that’s-”

“I said,” the Front Man repeats, “remove them.”

Click.

The cuffs fall away.

Gi-hun stumbles, grabbing his arm instinctively, hissing through his teeth. He nearly drops to his knees but catches himself on sheer rage. He glares at the Front Man, eyes bright and manic and burning.

The bastard watches him. Unshaken.

"You disappoint me, Player 456," the Front Man murmurs. "You were given an opportunity few ever receive. An opportunity to adapt. To survive under my terms. Instead, you chose defiance. You chose chaos."

He takes a slow step forward, almost like a mentor delivering a final lesson. "And every choice has its consequence."

Gi-hun tries to hold his silence, but the fear creeps under his skin anyway. He swallows hard, breath hitching painfully.

"I warned you," the Front Man continues, tone softening into something almost sympathetic. "I told you not to test me, not to push me into a place you wouldn't like. You don’t yet understand the full depth of what I am capable of."

He leans slightly closer, voice dropping lower.

"But you’re about to." He turns to the Triangle Guard. “You know what to do.”

The Triangle Guard by Gi-hun shifts.

And Gi-hun breathes in. Then out.

He can take it.

Pain he can endure. It’s nothing new. He’s been beaten, broken, starved, humiliated - this punishment will just be one more scar. One more badge of survival.

Gi-hun braces himself, jaw tight, body rigid.

But the Front Man has already turned, taking slow, calculated steps away and something inside Gi-hun snaps at the indifferent retreat.

"What, you can't even watch?" he snarls, voice ragged with contempt. "You have your dog beat me because you're too much of a coward to get your own hands dirty? Fucking look at me when you do this! Face me like a man, you bastard!

The Front Man freezes mid-step, utterly still, and turns his head slightly toward Gi-hun. His voice is deceptively gentle when he finally speaks again.

"Perhaps you’re right," he says quietly, thoughtfully. "Perhaps something more...personal is in order."

He turns to the Triangle Guard by the door. "Bring Guard 18."

Gi-hun blinks. A number. Just another number. Another Triangle, maybe. Another blunt object.

His eyes narrow, uncertain.

“What the hell does that mean?” he mutters. “Who the fuck is Guard 18?”

The Front Man doesn’t answer.

“Say something!” Gi-hun snaps, stepping forward despite the pain. “Fucking answer me! You look at me and answer me, you coward!”

But the man turns away again, dismissing Gi-hun’s rage.

Gi-hun shakes, fury vibrating under his skin. “Don’t walk away from me! I swear to God-!”

No answer.

Minutes pass like lifetimes, every heartbeat a painful thud. Gi-hun’s anger simmers, helpless, trapped.

Finally, footsteps echo. The door opens.

“Guard 18 reporting, sir,” says the Triangle, stepping aside.

Gi-hun turns, heart slamming against his ribs - and freezes.

Standing in the doorway is the Circle Guard. Blood still smeared on the pink fabric of his suit like guilt painted in daylight.

The Guard hesitates in the doorway, posture rigid but uncertain. Even behind the blank mask, Gi-hun feels the weight of the stare.

His mind unravels instantly, memories flooding through him – food secretly shared, gentle touches, moments of protection hidden behind brutal pink anonymity. And then, the crushing, gut-twisting betrayal on the terrace, that outstretched hand left empty.

The Guard holds Gi-hun’s gaze for one unbearable moment, then sharply looks away, shoulders tightening, visibly reminding himself of protocol. He steps stiffly forward, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, eyes locked firmly on the Front Man.

Gi-hun stares at him, pulse hammering in his ears, mind fracturing.

You looked at me.

You touched me.

You saved me.

You sold me.

You stood by me.

You didn’t stop them.

You are him.

You aren’t.

You are him.

You aren’t.

The Front Man gestures slowly toward Gi-hun. “Discipline him,” he orders, calm and cold. 

The Circle Guard stiffens, visibly shaken.

"No, sir."

The Front Man’s masked head tilts, slowly. “Excuse me?”

“I-” The Circle Guard’s voice is thinner now, unsure. “I hesitate to act without clarity. Sir.”

A long, painful silence.

Gi-hun’s eyes snap to the Front Man’s posture - still, unreadable. The mask reflects nothing.

“Clarity,” the Front Man repeats, slowly. “You require clarity.” He approaches the Guard step by step until he’s only inches away.

The Circle says nothing. His fingers twitch once at his side.

Gi-hun barely breathes.

The Front Man sighs softly, dangerously. "Sometimes," he says, voice low, addressing only the Circle Guard, "we are tested in ways we do not expect. And when we fail, we must learn in ways we do not enjoy."

Gi-hun’s eyes flick wildly between them, the air thick with unspoken tension. The Guard flinches minutely.

“I trusted you to know your place,” the Front Man continues, still addressing the Circle Guard. “You’ve been spared more than once. It will not become a pattern.”

The Circle Guard still doesn’t move. He seems trapped, paralyzed.

“I can always find another to take your place,” the Front Man whispers gently. “One far less... sympathetic.”

The Guard shudders visibly. He looks down, defeated, hands shaking slightly.

Finally, his head lifts again. He nods stiffly, voice hoarse behind his mask.

“Yes, sir.”

Gi-hun’s heart slams painfully against his ribs. "What-what the fuck does that mean? Why him? What the hell is this-"

The Front Man cuts Gi-hun off with a sharp wave of his hand. His attention remains on the Circle Guard.

“Guard 18,” the Front Man says. “I expect you to leave Player 456 in a state that reflects his choices. Leave him awake. Breathing. But hurt. Make it… memorable. Do you understand?”

The Circle Guard’s shoulders tremble. "Sir, I-"

“Do not,” the Front Man interrupts softly, dangerously, “forget who you are.”

The Guard is utterly still. Gi-hun sees his hesitation, feels it vibrating through the air, and suddenly he understands, horribly, exactly what the Front Man is doing.

He saw everything. Every small moment of mercy, every subtle act of defiance. Every second the Guard hesitated to hurt Gi-hun when he had the chance.

This isn’t just punishment for Gi-hun - it’s punishment for them both.

“Guard 18,” the Front Man repeats, "I’m waiting. "

The Guard swallows. Gi-hun doesn’t hear it, but he feels it - something shifting, some decision being made. The nod is small. The words are smaller.

"Understood, sir."

He takes a hesitant step forward, gaze meeting Gi-hun’s once more.

Gi-hun stares at him, at the body language that doesn’t match the task. Gi-hun knows that stance. The shake of his shoulders. The stiff tremor in his fingers. He is trembling everywhere except the hands, because he’s trying to make them steady. Trying to make this impersonal. Trying not to see.

The Front Man steps aside, watching silently.

Gi-hun’s throat closes. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes before he even realizes they’re there.

“Please,” he whispers. Just one word. Cracked and childlike. “Don’t.”

He knows it’s pointless. Knows the betrayal already happened. Knows that hand left his hanging in the air on the rooftop like a mockery of hope. But still - this?

He was ready for pain. He was ready for bruises, for blood.

But not this.

Not from him.

Gi-hun turns his face away and sobs.

The Guard steps forward - and the first blow lands, sudden and ruthless, right in his gut.

Gi-hun collapses instantly, the air ripped from his lungs, replaced by fire.

His knees slam into cold tile, body folding forward instinctively. The next kick hits his ribs, calculated - hard enough to break skin, draw blood, bruise muscle - but stops just short of cracking bone.

He screams, ragged, animal, and yet beneath the pain, beneath the brutal, merciless rhythm of blows, Gi-hun can feel the restraint. The terrible precision.

The Guard pauses between each strike, breathing raggedly through the mask, glancing briefly at Gi-hun's wounded left arm, always avoiding it, always giving him just enough space to breathe. To survive.

"Harder," the Front Man warns softly, deadly cold. "He needs to understand."

The hesitation is only a heartbeat, but Gi-hun sees the tremor ripple through pink fabric like a secret apology. Then the next kick comes harder, ruthless, agony exploding through him.

The world spins. His vision tunnels, blackening at the edges, broken fragments of light piercing the darkness like knives.

And through it all, Gi-hun sees him.

Sees the Guard.

Sees the hesitation, the ache in every measured strike. Sees the way he’s shattering from the inside, just as Gi-hun is breaking on the outside.

Gi-hun hears his own broken voice again, small and desperate, echoing through his skull:

You are him.

You aren’t

You are him.

You aren’t.

And God help him, Gi-hun no longer knows which is worse.

"Please-" Gi-hun gasps again. He looks desperately up at the Guard, eyes wide, pleading, vulnerable.

The Guard’s fist curls tight, knuckles trembling beneath the gloves.

"Continue," the Front Man commands.

Another blow, brutal, exact. Gi-hun’s body jerks violently, crashing back onto the unforgiving floor. He sobs openly now, helpless, betrayed, broken.

And then without warning, like a match striking in the dark, a memory crashes through the pain, hot and vivid and impossibly out of place.

 

---

 

It’s the summer of 1992, and Seoul hums like something alive.

Cicadas scream from crooked telephone wires. Pavement glistens with pooled heat. There’s always noise - someone’s fan rattling, a kid crying, a motorbike coughing its way up a hill - but this neighborhood, this block, hums differently. Familiar. Slower in the summer, like it’s too hot to pretend.

Gi-hun turns the corner like he’s done a thousand times, flip-flops snapping rhythm under him. He whistles, lazy and tuneless, swinging a plastic convenience store bag in one hand. The eggs inside knock gently against each other. He brought chili peppers, too – which were quite expensive, but she asked for it. You don’t say no to her chili pepper.

He rings the doorbell twice, always twice, and grins at the sound of slippers shuffling behind the door.

The door creaks open.

“Oh, Gi-hun!” her face lights up like she wasn’t sure he’d come. “You actually remembered.”

Gi-hun grins and holds out the bag like an offering. “You said you needed eggs.”  

She takes the bag from his hands, peeking inside with a mock frown. “Mm. Eggs… chili pepper… and cider? What is this, a care package or a bribe?”

Gi-hun puts a hand to his chest, offended. “Please, Ajumma. I’m eighteen now. A man of responsibility. Taste. Virtue.”

She snorts. “Uh-huh. And still sweet-talking.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, stepping inside, “no one - and I mean no one - makes kimchi fried rice like you do. Not even my mom.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m staking my dinner plans on that, by the way.”

“Ahhh, so that’s why you came,” she says, laughing as she turns toward the kitchen. “I knew it. I should start charging you rent.”

Gi-hun grins. “I pay in charm and compliments. Best deal you’ll get all year.”

She shakes her head, still smiling, and waves him upstairs. 

" He’s in his room. I told him you were coming, but he pretended not to care. Make him eat something if you can. Or just get him out of the house.”

Gi-hun kicks off his flip-flops at the stairs. “On it, boss.”

He knows the creak on the third step. Knows the way the light from the hall window hits the family photos. He knows the smell of dust and soy sauce and old floorboards. He knows this place better than he knows his own.

He throws open the bedroom door with the energy of a game show host. “The one, the only, the future Seoul National University golden boy!”

The boy doesn’t even look up. He’s bent over his textbook, pen between his fingers, glasses sliding down his nose.

Gi-hun lets out a suffering sigh and collapses on the bed. “This is the part where you gasp and say ‘Hyung, how I missed you,’ and throw yourself into my arms.”

“You’re loud.”

“You’re boring.”

Finally the pen stops and the boy looks up. Dark eyes. Tired. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with So-yeon?”

“Huh?” Gi-hun blinks. “Who?”

“Your girlfriend.”

Gi-hun squints. “Ohhh. Her.” He waves a hand dismissively. “Nah. She’s mad at me. And your mom told me you were stuck in here like some hermit. Thought I’d rescue you.”

"I’m fine.”

“You’re a ghost,” Gi-hun scoffs. “Seriously, when was the last time we hung out? When was the last time you had fun? It’s summer! You’re supposed to be doing nothing!”

He grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it across the room. It bounces off the boy’s shoulder.

Nothing.

Gi-hun squats beside the desk, picks up the nearest textbook and groans theatrically. “God, even the cover looks depressing. ‘Mathematical Analysis for Advanced blah blah blah.’ Who writes this crap?”

He flips the book open, adopting a mock-serious face. “Ah yes, log(x) equals… the probability of dying a virgin.”

The boy sighs, hard, and launches the pillow back at Gi-hun, nailing him in the face.

Victory.

“See?” Gi-hun says, grinning. “You’re already ten percent more fun.”

When he gets no reaction, he mimics the boy’s serious face, sits stiffly, and says in a robotic tone, “If I study for seventeen more hours and sleep for exactly ninety-two minutes, I will achieve enlightenment and ascend into the SNU admissions committee.”

“Stop.”

“Hey, hyung, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell-”

“I said stop.”

But he’s hiding a smile now. It’s tiny, but it’s there.

Gi-hun softens. “Hey,” he says gently. “I’m not trying to mess anything up. Just... come out. Just for a little. I missed you.”

The silence thickens.

Then, with a deep sigh, the boy stands.

Gi-hun grins like he won a lottery ticket. He tugs the boy’s arm. “Let’s go. Your mom’s already proud of me for getting you out of the house.”

“She likes you more than me.”

“Obviously. I’m charming.”

“Annoying.”

“Charming.”

They head downstairs, and Gi-hun peeks into the kitchen. “We’ll be back in… like, six hours! Or a decade!”

“Take your time,” his mom calls back, delighted. “He’s been locked up like a prisoner.”

Gi-hun smirks. “See? I’m the favorite.”

 

---

 

Back in the present, another blow lands. Sharp. A crack against Gi-hun’s ribs. His shoulder slams into the floor, jarring his vision sideways.

“His face. Next.” The Front Man says, somewhere above him.

The Guard doesn’t move.

Gi-hun blinks through the blur of sweat and blood, sees the pink-clad figure hesitate, sees the fist curl - and then, it comes. A brutal, direct kick across the jaw. His head whips sideways, and his mouth floods with warmth.

He coughs. Blood hits the floor. He gasps once, twice, vision swimming.

And in the wreckage of his skull, a thought rises.

Why is he remembering that day?

Why now?

They went to the city center, didn’t they? He remembers sweat. And laughter.

If he remembers right… they took the bus…

 

---

 

The bus is packed, the air sticky with sweat and summer and the tang of engine exhaust. A baby is wailing three seats down and someone smells aggressively of garlic.

And Gi-hun couldn’t be more thrilled.

He leans back, arms folded, watching the boy beside him. His smile widens, full of pride and mischief, as he nudges him with an elbow.

“So, I’ve been thinking. If SNU were to make a new program, something really important, it would definitely be a degree in ‘how to survive public transportation.’ We could start it right here. Right now. You’d be the star student.”

The boy rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. Gi-hun takes that as a win. “I mean, just imagine it - your thesis would be ‘Advanced Study of Sweat and Human Contact’.”

The boy sighs but finally looks over, his lips quirking. “You know, you could get a PhD in annoying people.”

Gi-hun gasps. “What? Me? Annoying? Never!” He leans in, lowering his voice as if sharing a deep secret. “It’s a gift.”

The boy, clearly trying to focus on the window, hums in response but still manages to hide a small smile, his lips twitching.

“C’mon,” Gi-hun continues, “You should be thanking me. I’m making your life infinitely more interesting.”

“Is that what you call it?” The boy smirks, shaking his head.

“Oh, absolutely,” Gi-hun says. “I’m like a walking entertainment center, and you, my friend, are the lucky one who gets the front-row seat.”

The boy finally drops his guard, letting out a low chuckle. It’s quiet, but it’s enough. Gi-hun's heart flutters with the satisfaction of winning a small victory. His stupid jokes, his loud declarations - they were all worth it for that moment.

“I’m still trying to figure out why you’re always so energetic.” The boy says. “You exhaust me just by being near you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I tire you out with my dazzling wit and infectious personality?” Gi-hun teases, nudging him with his elbow, but the boy only shakes his head.

“Alright, fine.” Gi-hun says, lowering his voice but not losing the mischief in his eyes. “But let’s make a deal. When you get into SNU-” he lets the words hang there dramatically. “I get a VIP pass to all your lectures. Maybe you can even get me a spot in the front row. I’m really excited to watch you be the genius of the year.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” the boy says flatly, eyes still ahead. “But I don’t think you’d last long in a classroom full of real students.”

“Who needs students when you’ve got me as your personal fan club?” Gi-hun retorts. “Watch this.”

He turns to the bus at large and raises his voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, witness the future SNU genius!” he announces, motioning to the boy. “I know, I know. He’s a legend in the making.”

The boy's face goes red in an instant.

“Shut up, hyung,” he mutters, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Gi-hun leans back and looks at him with exaggerated sincerity. “I’m just trying to elevate your image, alright? People need to know who the future of Korea’s academic elite is. It’s you, buddy. It’s all you.”

The bus lurches to a stop, and a few passengers glance up, some laughing nervously, some clearly rolling their eyes. But Gi-hun doesn’t care. He’s too busy watching the boy, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries to hide his smile.

They hop off the bus downtown, still bickering softly. Gi-hun spots an ice cream stall immediately.

"Hold up," Gi-hun says, tugging him forward. "Ice cream. My treat."

The boy hesitates slightly, eyes darting over the bright flavors. Gi-hun orders mint chocolate chip for himself, then points decisively at the strawberry swirl.

“You want strawberry swirl,” Gi-hun announces confidently.

The boy stares, lips parting in surprise. “How’d you know?”

"Because I know you," Gi-hun replies easily, handing over the cone.

Gi-hun loops their arms suddenly, playful and overly dramatic. “Well, shall we continue our date, sweetheart?”

The boy immediately tenses, his face burning red. "Stop. People will see."

"So?" Gi-hun laughs, oblivious. "Let them! You’re lucky to be seen with me.”

"It’s not funny," the boy whispers sharply, gaze darting nervously.

Gi-hun chuckles as he steers them forward. “Relax! It’s just a joke.”

They wander deeper into the bustling heart of Seoul, arms eventually separating as they dodge street vendors and weaving bicycles.

 

---

 

A kick lands against his back, and Gi-hun feels his body jerk forward. He doesn’t care, not right now. He’s slipping again, losing himself in the memory.

Where was the store? He remembers. He remembers. It was right next to the tteokbokki stall with the big red banner. A place he would never forget.

He feels the blood in his nose, on his tongue, the burn in his chest. The boy - he can see him. His face, clear and vivid.

And then, before the moment completely fades away, the words slip out:

“Please...”

He doesn’t even know who he’s saying it to anymore.

 

---

 

The record store is a little too bright, a little too cold, like every store like this always is. The aircon wheezes overhead, fighting a battle it’s clearly losing, and somewhere near the back, a speaker buzzes just off-key. Rows of CDs line the shelves, plastic, shiny, begging to be touched. Some still have security stickers half-peeling off, like they’ve been sitting there forever, waiting for the right hands. There’s this quiet urgency in the air, like if you don’t grab the right album now, someone else will. You can almost hear it in your head already, whatever you’re looking for - even if you don’t know what it is yet.

Gi-hun is flipping through them lazily, fingers skimming over Seo Taiji and Boys, Nirvana, Guns N’ Roses - laughing softly at the absurdity of so much revolution packed into jewel cases.

“Damn,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Look at this lineup.”

He yanks out ‘Use Your Illusion I’, grinning. “This one has the better solos,” he says to the boy, then grabs II with his other hand. “But this one’s got the weird, sad songs. I dunno, I think I’m a ‘Don’t Cry’ guy. You?”

He turns, ready to shove the CD in the other boy’s face and launch into another sermon about guitars and synths and rebellion - but the aisle’s empty.

“Hey!” he calls, loud enough to turn a few heads. “Where’d you go, man? I swear if you ditched me for the jazz section again, I’m leaving you here with the rest of the nerds.”

No answer.

He cranes his neck and finally spots him in the back corner of the store, crouched in the sad little vinyl graveyard. The shelves here sag under the weight of the forgotten: dusty sleeves, hand-labeled price tags, faded plastic bins that smell faintly of mildew and old glue. It’s the kind of place the store owner doesn’t bother reorganizing anymore.

And there he is - fingers slowly trailing over the album cover like it’s a wound that never healed. A man in a black suit shakes hands with another man engulfed in flame.

Gi-hun’s breath catches a little. He recognizes the cover. Pink Floyd. ‘Wish You Were Here’. Of course. The one missing from the boy’s collection. The one he’s mentioned at least four times this past year.

He walks up slowly. “You still don’t have that one?”

A nod.

Gi-hun rubs the back of his neck. “Kinda eerie, isn’t it? The handshake thing. I don’t know. Feels like... something’s off. Like one guy knows the deal is bad, but he shakes anyway.”

He doesn’t answer.

Gi-hun peers over his shoulder. “You want it?”

A shrug. But it’s not a no.

“I’d buy it for you,” Gi-hun starts, already fishing through his pockets, “but I spent everything on bus fare and that ice cream you didn’t even finish-”

“Why’d you get two scoops?”

“I was celebrating,” he says defensively. “It’s a big deal, you willingly stepping outside your house.”

The boy is still looking at the record.

“You bring any cash?”, Gi-hun asks.

A headshake.

Gi-hun exhales, then looks around the store. The guy at the register is buried in a newspaper. A couple of teens hover near the CD section, bickering over some ballad singer. No one’s watching.

So he just... does it. Slides the album under his shirt, smooth as anything, and turns casually toward the door.

“What are you doing?” comes the hiss behind him.

Gi-hun doesn’t turn around. “Just act normal.”

“Put it back.”

“Too late.”

“Hyung-”

But the bell above the shop door jingles, and then-

“YAH!” the owner shouts. “You two! HEY!”

Gi-hun grabs the boy’s wrist and runs.

They barrel through the street, skidding around food carts and skipping over busted pavement, Gi-hun still laughing like it’s all a game. Behind them, the shouts fade, swallowed by the noise of the city.

They only stop when they hit a back alley, lungs heaving, sweat slick at their necks. Gi-hun leans back against a wall, clutching the record like a trophy.

“You’re insane,” the other boy pants.  

“Not denying that.”

“You stole it.”

“For you,” Gi-hun grins, “You’re welcome.”

“This isn’t funny,” he snaps. “I can’t-I can’t have a record.”

Gi-hun lifts a brow, still catching his breath. “Like a vinyl record-?”

“A criminal record, you dumbass!”

“Oh.”

“I have SNU interviews next year,” they boy says, pacing tight, angry circles in the alley. “You think they’ll even look at me if this goes on my name? If anyone finds out, it’s over. Done. I’m not like you - I don’t have time to screw around.“

“Okay, okay. Shit,” Gi-hun raises his hands. “I didn’t think-”

“No, you don’t think,” he snaps, louder now. “That’s the problem. You just do whatever you want and drag everyone else down with you.”

Gi-hun opens his mouth. Shuts it. Then he pulls out a crumpled cigarette from his back pocket and offers one over with a grin.

“Go on. If we’re going down this road, might as well complete the image.”

The other boy stares.  “I don’t smoke.”

“Now you do.”

“No, I - my mom would kill me.”

Gi-hun wheezes a laugh. “God, you’re such a mother’s boy. One won’t kill you.”

“I could get addicted.”

“It’s a cigarette, not heroin.”

Finally, the boy takes it, hesitantly.

Gi-hun lights it for him, shielding the flame with one hand. Their faces are close in the matchlight, just for a second. Then the smoke curls upward, soft and thin.

The first puff makes him cough. Gi-hun laughs.

“Look at you! Breaking rules and smoking in alleys like a delinquent.”

“Stop it,” he mutters, red in the face.

“Seriously,” Gi-hun teases. “SNU’s gonna be thrilled. You’ll walk in and they’ll be like, wow, what a badass.”

“No, Gi-hun you don’t get it,” he repeats, more quietly now. “I can’t afford even a rumor. I’ve worked too hard. This - this stupid, impulsive thing you do…I can’t be dragged down by it.”

Gi-hun’s face softens. “I’m sorry really”.  He is quiet for a moment. Then-

“Punch me.”

The other boy stares, winded. “What?”

Gi-hun steps closer. “Come on. I stole a record. I lit your first cigarette. I put your whole future on the line. One punch. It’s fair.”

“God, you’re so stupid.”

Gi-hun spreads his arms. “Go on. Hit me. Ruin my jaw. Break my face. Make your SNU application sparkle.”

The boy stares at him. Jaw tight. Knuckles white.

And without warning - he does.

It’s fast. Clean. Fist connects with cheek and Gi-hun goes sprawling to the side, coughing, laughing.

“FUCK!”

“God- Gi-hun, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d hit you that hard-”

Gi-hun is wheezing, blood on his lip, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Holy shit, you’ve got an arm on you.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I’m proud of you.”

There’s a pause.

Then, for the first time since they ran, the boy smiles. It’s small, just a twitch of lips. But it’s there.

“You’re insane.”

“But you know what? I’d do it again,” Gi-hun says, smiling wide, crooked, full of pride. “For you? I’d steal the whole goddamn store.”

The silence that follows is soft. Warm.

Then, slowly, the boy tilts his head. That same little twitch he always does when he breaks eye contact. When things get too much.

His cheeks are red.

“You still mad at me?” Gi-hun asks, voice teasing. “Or do I need to let you kick me, too?”

The boy shakes his head.

Gi-hun nudges him. “I’ll get you a legal one next time. Promise.”

They sit, backs against the concrete, knees brushing now and then, pretending not to notice. Smoke curls between them, slow and ghostly. The record rests in the boy’s lap. Somewhere, someone is yelling about shoplifters, but here, in this alley, the world is quiet.

And Gi-hun, bruised and beaming, thinks this - right here - might be the happiest he’s ever been.

 

---

 

The hits land like punctuation. He feels the crunch of his ribs and the snap of something deep in his shoulder, and it should matter, it should, but he’s not really here anymore.

He’s somewhere else.

That last August. The last time the boy was his.

He doesn’t remember what they ate that week. Doesn’t remember the heatwave, or the name of the film they started and never finished, or why he kept waking up with his heart racing and his mouth dry. Doesn’t remember the mosquito bites on his calves, or where he left his lighter, or what day of the week it was when it all cracked open.

But he remembers the record player.

That clunky little thing in the corner of the room, the one with the warped lid that never quite shut and the turntable that clicked twice before the arm dropped. It had been Sang-woo’s dad’s once. Or maybe his uncle’s. Or maybe it just appeared in the room one day, like all relics of things that matter do.

And he remembers that song.

“Wish You Were Here.”

It played every night that month. Sometimes twice. Sometimes five times in a row. Always at the end of the day, as the sky went orange and then black and the fan in the window pushed the hot air around like it was trying to stir something that had long since settled.

The boy played it like he was begging time to stop. Like if the guitars kept singing, the goodbyes couldn’t start. And Gi-hun - idiot that he was - just lay there, blinking up at the ceiling like it would give him answers. Pretending nothing was changing.

But things were changing.

He just didn’t see it. Not until the dresser started emptying one folded shirt at a time. Not until the stack of notebooks grew smaller. Not until the backpack, once forgotten in a pile, started sitting upright by the door, its zipper quietly closed, packed, ready. Waiting.

But the record stayed. The song stayed. Every night, the same ritual: that first guitar line, soft and unsure, like it didn’t want to start something it couldn’t stop. Like it was asking a question: Is this the last time?

And then the second guitar came in, louder, sadder, like it already knew the answer.

The boy never said a word about it. He never explained it. He never said I’m going now. Never said don’t wait for me.

He just dropped the needle. Let the music say everything he couldn’t.

And now, on the cold floor, body torn open by fists and boots and God knows what else, Gi-hun hears it all again, like the vinyl is spinning in his chest cavity, the needle carved directly into his heart.

It’s in his ears, in his mouth, in the gaps between the strikes. Every hit is a chord. Every breath is static. Every broken rib is another loop of the track.

And he knows, with a certainty so brutal it feels like a confession - it’s him.

It’s him. It’s him. It’s-

The words are rising up, hot and bitter. They’re in his throat, burning to get out. He doesn’t want to let them go. He can’t. He shouldn’t. But the syllables are right there, trembling on his tongue, desperate to exist.

“Sang-”

No-

Don’t say it.

Don’t wake up the ghost. Don’t let him in.

But how the hell are you supposed to keep the dead away, when they’re right there in front of you? When the ghost is breathing through another man’s mask, standing not two meters away, chest heaving, hands shaking, like memory itself crawled back from the grave and put on a uniform?

It’s him. It’s him.

And suddenly Gi-hun can feel it all  - the smile that was just for him, the way the boy’s eyes used to soften, the warmth, the hush, the wordless promise that once lived between them. He swears it’s still there. He swears he could reach out, just for a second, and touch the past.

He can’t hold it back anymore.

His voice comes out splintered, torn at the edges, raw:

“SANG-WOO!”

Time fractures. The Guard freezes mid-kick, and for one split, deranged second, Gi-hun almost believes the name hit its target. He can’t see the face, but he feels it - a ripple, a jolt, the whole room stiffening.

It’s him.

But it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. His thoughts spiral in a hundred directions, his mind a blur. 

How can it be him? 

But the guitars - they’re louder now, ringing in his ears, answering him, like they’re still there, in that bedroom. The melody - the question - pulling him back to that summer, to that boy, to the space between those notes.

The Guard doesn’t move. He just breathes, shallow, unsteady. Like his chest is full of memory, too.

Finally, the Front Man’s voice cuts through the silence. “Enough. Guard 18, you may leave.”

Still nothing.

Gi-hun’s vision blurs. He’s not sure what hurts more - his body or whatever this is. The waiting. The knowing. The not knowing.

And then, slowly, the Guard turns. One step. Then another. Not a soldier now. Not a machine. Just a man leaving something behind.

Gi-hun watches him go. The door closes. The blood stays. The silence presses in.

And with a breath that feels like the last one he’ll ever take, he whispers it again, broken and wrecked.

“Sang-woo…”

The boy is gone. The ghost is gone. Sang-woo is gone.

But God, in that moment, Gi-hun has never felt him more alive.

Notes:

So, here we are - Gi-hun might’ve just figured out one of the two mysteries haunting him. Sang-woo: unlocked. In-ho: ??? Still locked behind a secret door. Who knows when that one will open. Maybe next chapter, maybe next part. Stay tuned.

Now, a quick personal note: In about an hour, I’ll be heading off to the airport because, lucky me, my University’s having a week off for some fancy academic event (read: the biggest music festival of the year, aka ‘The Students Need a Break So Let’s Throw a Massive Party’). Since this is my fourth year of enduring it all, I decided to finally take a break, go on vacation and escape the madness for a bit.

Here’s the deal: while I won’t have my computer with me and won’t be able to reply to your comments immediately, I’ll be reading every single one during my time off. I will soak up your thoughts, your theories, your reactions (all the goodness), but I’ll only be responding when I get back in 12 days. I want to sit at my desk, read carefully, and give your comments the love and attention they deserve. Honestly, you have no idea how much joy I get from reading what you guys think about all this. It keeps me going, and I love it.

Now, for those of you who are curious about Symphonie Fantastique's Fifth Movement - good news! I already answered a reader in the previous chapter, explaining all that chaotic music theory. But if you’re still wondering how it relates to the scene (or if you want me to talk about the Pink Floyd bit), feel free to ask! I’ll be happy to go on about it in the comments when I’m back. I mean it. I could talk about this stuff for hours, and I’d love to share my nerdy breakdowns with you all.

So, feel free to keep the kudos and comments coming! And when I get back, I’ll dive into them with all the excitement you guys have given me.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you for being the best readers in the universe <3

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!!

Thank you so much for all the love you showed in the previous chapters! It’s been an absolute delight reading your comments. Honestly, your enthusiasm is what keeps my sleep schedule so… interesting.

I’m so sorry for the delayed update, but alas, life has been… well, “busy” doesn’t quite cover it, but let’s pretend it does, for everyone’s sanity. On top of the vacation I took outside the country (which, as you might recall, was my last-ditch attempt to save my brain from complete meltdown - success: moderate to high), my professors apparently held a secret meeting and decided that “pre-exam weeks” is the ideal time to assign even more assignments.

So yes, the Chapter is a little (okay, a lot) later than usual. BUT! I have an announcement to make: with this update, we’ve reached the finale of PART ONE of this fic!! That’s also why it took me longer, because, you know, if you’re going to end a part, you want to do it right.

Now, as compensation for the delayed update, this Chapter is officially the longest I’ve ever written. I know reading 16k words at once can be a bit of an endurance event, but I swear I tried to make it shorter. It just… didn’t work. These chapters only make sense at this density. If I split them, it wouldn’t hit the same.

So… here it is: the final 16k words of angst for Part One. May your snacks be plentiful, your tissues close at hand, and your endurance stat high.

 

Enjoy!!

Truth, Gi-hun thinks, was never meant to survive this long.

By the time it reaches a man like him - bleeding, broken, lying on a floor he can barely feel - it’s already been diluted a thousand times. Filtered through survival, pain, memory.

He stares at the door where Guard 18 disappeared, and he doesn’t dare look away. Because if he closes his eyes now, even for a moment, he's terrified he won't remember exactly how Sang-woo tilted his head when he broke eye contact - just a few degrees off-center, enough to hide whatever lay behind his gaze.

And once that detail vanishes, it's over. Once you lose the small things, everything else falls like dominoes, unstoppable, inevitable, absolute.

You forget how he said your name - quiet, careful, like he didn’t want to break it by saying it out loud.

You forget that he loved Pink Floyd, especially the songs that made sorrow feel structured, organized. Like sadness could be archived and played back at will.

You forget that, long before he was 218 or 18, long before the screaming, the blood, and the Games, he was just Sang-woo. He was just a boy who wanted, more than anything, to become a man his mother could be proud of.

You forget he once dreamed of being someone good.

And then he’s truly gone - not dead, but erased.

Gi-hun tries to think. He does. But his thoughts scatter, slipping past him the moment he reaches for them. Still, he tries. Because Sang-woo used to - God, he used to believe in thinking. In logic. In order. In proofs. In certainty. In the idea that if you do this, then that happens.

“Everything else lies,” Sang-woo once said. “This doesn’t.”

Gi-hun hadn’t understood it then. Thought it was just something smart people said when they were tired of explaining themselves.

Now he gets it. It wasn’t comfort. It was control. Certainty was a way to keep the chaos out. If you could name your pain, maybe it wouldn’t sneak up on you. Maybe you could box it in. Predict it. Survive it.

Okay, fine. Let’s try that, then. Let’s do what he did. So:

Two - maybe three - cracked ribs.

A cheekbone out of place.

Blood all over the floor - how much? A liter, maybe two, impossible to keep track.

And there’s a cut running straight down his arm, his own handiwork.

See? Look, he tells himself, look at this. These are facts, right here. These are things he can name, measure, line up in a row. This is real. This is something solid in a world that keeps slipping away.

He clings to the damage like it’s the only proof he didn’t imagine everything. If he can count it, then maybe the rest of it happened too. Maybe Sang-woo was here. Maybe Sang-woo is here.

He doesn’t want to fix him, or forgive him, or understand him.

He just wants to see him. He wants Sang-woo... deciphered, somehow, even though he knows damn well it’s not possible. But still he wants to trace the edges of the man like he’s solving for x, like somewhere under all this mess there’s a logic to find, something that’ll make this hurt make sense. Because if he can just name it, map it, nail it to the fucking wall, maybe he won’t have to keep living with the weight of not knowing where the boy ended and the ghost began.

So he plays a game. It’s stupid, but it helps. Like when he was a kid, sitting on the floor, flipping over cards, desperate to find the pairs. A memory game - the kind you play alone when you’ve run out of people to play with.

Now it's names and faces instead of pictures, but the hope is the same: that if he turns over the right ones, maybe the story will make sense again. Maybe Sang-woo will make sense again.

Sang-woo.

218.

18.

Three absolutes. Three contradictions. Three lives. All his. None his.

He flips the first card with shaking fingers.

Sang-woo. The boy. The friend. The mind too sharp for the world he was handed. A smile that never stayed long but glowed like a match when it did. A voice so soft when he called him hyung, so cautious it felt like it belonged only to them. A warmth he wishes he had recognized sooner, held tighter, loved more fiercely.

Flip.

218. The strategist. The liar. The man who walked out of the Marbles Game alone and never said how. The man who pushed an innocent glassmaker toward his death and watched him fall without blinking. The one who slit open Sae-byeok’s throat while she was bleeding out and whispered nothing while she died. The number that ends in even, symmetrical death. A murderer in a green tracksuit.

Flip.

18.

And here Gi-hun hesitates.

Because 18 isn’t one or the other. He’s not a memory. He’s not a man.

He’s a blur. A number that moves like Sang-woo, tilts its head like Sang-woo, breathes like Sang-woo. But says nothing. Is nothing. And still, somehow, means everything.

Gi-hun keeps telling himself - over and over, like some fevered chant he can’t stop mumbling in the back of his head - that Sang-woo is dead. That’s supposed to be the anchor, the one unbreakable certainty. Because death has rules, death draws clean lines, death is supposed to be final, logical, simple, the last number in the equation, the moment the story stops. Death equals zero, full stop.

But this doesn’t feel like zero.

Sang-woo died, and still kept bringing him food.

Sang-woo died, and still hesitated before every strike.

Sang-woo died, and still his hands never forgot how to be gentle.

None of this makes sense. Gi-hun wants it to. He needs it to. He wants the story to have clear edges, wants to be able to say: this was the moment Sang-woo stopped being Sang-woo. He wants to categorize him, file him away, assign him a label that doesn’t keep changing. He wants to understand what he’s looking at when he stares at Guard 18.

And just when he thinks he might go blind from trying to see too much-

A shadow kneels beside him, reaching out with a gloved hand and touching Gi-hun's forehead so gently it feels cruel.

The Front Man.

The hand strokes his hair back, and for a moment, Gi-hun lets it happen.

He hates it.

He wants more of it.

He’s starving for any touch that doesn’t hurt.

And even now, when he’s half-gone and barely holding on, bleeding and dizzy and the world spinning out from under him, Gi-hun still finds himself whispering it:

“Sang-woo…”

The silence answers him gently, like fingertips pressed softly over his lips.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, letting go, knowing when he wakes - if he wakes - every certainty he believed in will be shattered at his feet.

Maybe Sang-woo was wrong, Gi-hun thinks, fading into the darkness.

Maybe the real truths weren't cold certainties. Maybe they were always softer - smaller things like the angle of a look, the warmth of a whispered name, the quiet ache of music shared in silence.

And maybe, in the end, those small truths are all anyone can hold onto when everything else collapses.

 

 

 

The first thing Gi-hun feels is the soft rhythm of something mechanical, quiet and repetitive, floating gently through layers of dark nothingness.

Beep... beep... beep...

Slowly, sensation creeps in behind the sound - soft sheets, impossibly smooth against bare skin. The delicate whisper of fabric as he breathes. Warmth, startling after weeks of damp and cold. Comfort, so unfamiliar it frightens him.

His eyes flicker open, then shut immediately, heart stuttering. Too bright. Too sudden. He forces himself to breathe, slower, cautious.

In. Out. Again.

When his eyes open the second time, he blinks slowly, carefully, piecing the room together bit by bit. The lighting is dim, golden, soft like a hotel lobby, but he knows better. This is the Front Man’s quarters. He knows it by the color of the walls - dark, smooth, expensive, in a way that feels obscene. He knows it by the hush of the air, how it doesn’t even move unless permitted.

He sinks back, heart racing, mind scattering.

Think.

Remember.

He’d been... bleeding? Yes. On the cold floor. He was beaten by Guard 18 - Sang-woo - no, not Sang-woo. But Sang-woo, somehow, still. Maybe. Possibly.

His head throbs. He presses shaking fingers to his temples, struggling to steady his thoughts, barely noticing the cold stick of electrodes clinging to his chest, the tight pressure of the blood pressure cuff biting into his arm, or the soft pinch of the oximeter clamped to his fingertip.

Then he hears it again.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He turns his head toward the sound, neck stiff and sore. There’s a monitor beside him - green lines twitch across a small screen, his heartbeat written in code. His pulse in pixels. There are other numbers too, other lines - some rise and fall like waves, others blink in quiet rhythm.

He stares for a moment, not trusting it. It feels like eavesdropping on his own body.

And below the monitor - he freezes.

There’s a clear plastic bag, half-full. Faintly yellow. Pale gold, clinging to the sides of the container like shame made visible.

His eyes follow the line running from the bag.

It disappears under the blanket.

He stops breathing.

Slowly, like lifting the lid of a coffin, he pushes the blanket down.

The hospital gown is thin, barely more than a curtain. Beneath it, his legs, bare, pale under the soft light. And the tube, running between them.

His throat closes. A wave of something - panic? nausea? - rises, but he swallows it back down.

Someone put that there. While he was unconscious. While he couldn’t say no.

No control, he thinks, numb. Not even now.

His fingers tremble at his sides. He starts to push himself upright - slowly, instinctively. A mistake. Pain shatters through his ribs. He gasps, falls back, and for a moment he hates this bed, hates its warmth, hates how kind it pretends to be.

A button catches his eye, small and innocent beside him. Instinct makes him press it before he can think better of it. It clicks softly beneath his thumb.

Minutes pass, dragging slow, infinite. Anxiety coils tighter, heart pounding painfully loud in the stillness.

When the door opens gently, Gi-hun’s breath stops, hope and terror twisting together.

A figure in pink enters, moving slowly. He watches the Circle Guard walk closer, senses tilting.

“Sang-woo?” he whispers, voice cracking weakly.

But no, the footsteps are wrong. The rhythm is more delicate. And this Guard is smaller, slighter, obviously different. Feminine, he realizes slowly. He knows there are women Guards here, fewer, but present.

“Everything alright, Mister 456?” The Guard’s voice is gentle, careful, the pitch higher than usual even through the modulator, confirming his suspicion. A woman. Not Sang-woo.

Gi-hun stares blankly.

When she steps closer, he cracks.  

"No-" he chokes out, body recoiling violently, hands flying up instinctively to cover his face. "No, please. Don’t-"

He flinches away, breath shuddering, waiting for the blows that always came.

But nothing comes. Instead, silence stretches softly, broken only by the mechanical heartbeat of the monitor.

The woman Guard’s voice returns, even softer, concerned.

“I won’t hurt you,” she says quietly, clearly. “I promise. I’m a doctor. You’re safe now.”

Safe.

Safe?

"Safe," he echoes bitterly, his voice rough. But slowly, he lowers trembling hands, daring a cautious look up at her mask. Still blank, still unreadable, but strangely gentle.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks softly.

Gi-hun blinks, suspicion flickering. “Seong Gi-hun. Though I guess you people just call me ‘Player 456’”, he whispers roughly.

“Good.” She moves slightly, careful not to startle him again. “Do you remember what happened?”

Gi-hun tries to move. It hurts. "Got the shit beaten out of me. Again."

She hesitates, then nods slightly.

“That's right. You were severely injured. You've been unconscious for three days. We treated you downstairs, then brought you here to rest.”

Gi-hun’s fingers twist nervously in the sheets. “Here?”

"You're in your bedroom," she says gently. "It's safer, more comfortable for recovery."

He stares at her, skeptical, pulse quickening

His bedroom.

His.

He almost laughs - almost. But it doesn’t come out. Just gets stuck, bitter and burning.

“Bedroom,” he repeats, voice thin and frayed. “Didn’t know they handed those out to people like me.”

He looks around slowly, as if seeing the room for the first time. The warm light. The softness of the sheets. The brown cover folded neatly at his waist. The smell of clean.

Is this what happens when you bleed just enough? Do you earn comfort with suffering? Is this a level up? A promotion?

Welcome to the premium cage, Gi-hun. You screamed beautifully. Here’s a pillow.

“Comfortable,” he murmurs. “Yeah. That’s new.”

She doesn’t comment. Just watches. Then, she moves carefully closer, eyes hidden behind the mask studying him closely.

“I need to ask a few more questions to evaluate you. Is that alright?”

He nods warily, watching her carefully.

“Can you tell me where you are?” she begins softly.

He snorts weakly, bitterly sarcastic. “Hell?”

She pauses, perhaps a little thrown, then continues carefully. “Do you know what year it is?”

“2024,” he replies. Then, a beat later, “…I think.”

She nods slowly. “Do you know what season it is?”

Gi-hun blinks. Season?

He turns toward her. His expression flattens. Hollow. “You ever spend weeks in a box with no windows and try to guess the season?”

She doesn’t answer. Just notes it mentally.

“Can you remember three words?” she asks. “I’ll ask you again in a few minutes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Paper. Mirror. Tree.”

He repeats them, barely above a whisper.

“Spell your name backwards.”

He stares. “Why?”

“Please.”

“… N-U-H-I-G.”

“Good.”

She steps around the bed, her gloved hands moving to the IV stand.

"Normal saline with dextrose. You’re tolerating it well. You’ll stay on it for a while longer, you’ve been very dehydrated. Antibiotics, too, to prevent infection from the wound on your arm.”

He looks down at his left arm.

The bandage is fresh. Clean. Neat. That cut was his. That was supposed to mean something. That was the one thing he chose.

Now it’s just... gone. Tended.

He hates it. Hates how easy it was to undo his pain.

She leans in a little. “I’m going to check your pupils.”

She clicks a small light on, hidden inside the sleeve of her glove. She shines it into one eye, then the other.

“Equal. Reactive. Now, follow my finger.” She moves it across his field of vision. “Good. No nystagmus. That’s a relief.”

She watches his eyes a moment longer.

“Are you experiencing any shortness of breath?"

Gi-hun tries to breathe in slowly, but his chest is heavy, tight. He’s aware of it now, the way his lungs ache, the way he can’t quite draw in the air the way he wants. He remembers - he remembers the blood in his throat, the pain from before.

“No,” he lies, shaking his head slowly, but his voice trembles slightly. “I’m fine.”

She seems to consider this, then steps closer. He can’t stop himself from tensing, his body reacting to the memories flooding back. Guards touching him, moving too close, never quite knowing if they’re hurting him or just pretending not to. She adjusts her stance, slightly to the side, so she’s not looming directly over him.

Then, she lifts a stethoscope from her side.

He stares. “How do you even use that under all that gear?”

She answers evenly, “Built-in chest piece inside the mask. Audio transmitted through the headset.”

She places the diaphragm over his chest. The cold kiss of the instrument startles him.

“Take a deep breath,” she says.

He does. It’s ragged, strained.

“There’s still some fluid in your right lung,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “We drained most of it yesterday.”

His eyes snap to hers - or to where her eyes should be.

“Fluid?”

“From the trauma. The cracked ribs. You had a pleural effusion, blood and fluid collecting around the lung. You lost quite a bit of blood internally, aside from the cut on your arm.”

Her tone is gentle, informative. But it cuts.

“We expect the rest of the fluid to reabsorb naturally. You’ve already received two units of blood. That stabilized you.”

He swallows hard. “I didn’t… know it was that bad.”

“It was.”

Gi-hun stares at the ceiling, mind racing backward.

He remembers the blows, the Guard - Sang-woo - hitting him, over and over. And he remembers the hesitation. The subtle way Guard 18 had seemed to hold back, despite the Front Man’s voice urging, pressing him harder, demanding more-

Or had he? Had Gi-hun imagined it all? Maybe Sang-woo had obeyed fully after all, leaving him this broken. Maybe it was all just a cruel fantasy, a delusion built from loneliness and hope.

He closes his eyes briefly, trying to steady the shaking in his chest.

She moves the stethoscope lower. Presses lightly.

“No crepitus. Your lung is re-expanding well.”

She slides it to his sternum.  “Pulse is steady. Slight murmur - normal, considering stress and blood loss.”

The woman removes the stethoscope and moves to the end of the bed. Gi-hun, too exhausted to argue, sinks back into the pillows. He tries to focus on his breathing, but his mind keeps wandering.

Then she leans over him, gentle but firm. Her gloved hands move to adjust something beneath his gown.

His body stiffens immediately.

"Mister 456," she says, her voice light, but with a trace of concern. "I’m going to remove the catheter now, alright?"

He can’t breathe for a moment, that same, cold terror racing through his veins.

“Don’t, please don’t-” His voice cracks, desperate.

She pauses, sensing the change in his body, and says gently, “I won’t hurt you, it’s just part of your care. You’re going to feel better once this is done, I promise."

Her voice is so soft, so steady, it cracks through the chaos in his mind.

He’s not sure how, but he manages to still his body, his chest rising and falling sharply with the remnants of panic. He stares at the ceiling above, the dark, cool shadows stretching across it. He’s not sure if he’s calming down or simply surrendering, but in the moment, there’s no room for fighting.

Finally, his head shifts slightly, just enough to nod - just enough to give her the permission she’s been waiting for.

Without saying another word, she reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small syringe. Her hands are steady as she plugs it into the tube near his thigh.

He can’t bring himself to watch, to follow her every movement. Instead, he closes his eyes briefly, focusing on the sound of his breath and the steady beep of the monitor beside him.

A soft pressure builds at the base of the tube, and then he feels it - like a small, internal release, a slow and careful deflation.

She gives him time - time to adjust, time to breathe - before she pulls the tube out gently. Slowly. Carefully. He feels the pressure on his skin, the tube slipping free, the weight of it leaving his body.

Her voice returns, low and calm. “There. All done.”

He exhales in relief.

She carefully wraps up the catheter, the syringe, and the drainage bag, then tosses them all into a disposal bag.

Then, she steps back, glancing at the bed to make sure everything is adjusted.

“Let me fix your pillows,” she says, her voice laced with soft professionalism. She shifts them carefully, raising his head just a little. “There. Better?”

He nods. Barely.

“Can you tell me those words I asked you to remember?” she asks, soft as before, almost as if she expects him to be distracted by the question.

His eyes flicker, still too foggy to focus. His mind's a whirlpool. 

What words? Oh, right.

“Paper... Mirror... Tree...” he mutters, barely aware of the words slipping from his lips.

She nods approvingly.

“Perfect. Now I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll be just outside,” she says. “Press the button if you need anything.”

She moves to leave, and Gi-hun's heart speeds up again.

“Wait,” Gi-hun says, his voice rough.

Her hand pauses in the air. “Yes?”

He hesitates. It’s a small thing. A question he shouldn’t ask, but he can’t stop himself.

“The baby,” he says, voice almost pleading. “Is he still there? At the medical facility? Is he... alright?”

She stands still for a second longer than he expects, her hands clenched at her side before she turns her gaze to the floor. He doesn’t want to imagine what she’s thinking, but his mind paints the picture anyway.

Gi-hun's pulse quickens. Please. Please, say something.

She looks back up at him.

“He’s fine,” she says, voice a bit quieter now. “He’ll be in observation for a few more days. Then he’ll be placed with a foster family.”

He exhales slowly, his shoulders sinking into the pillow. But something stirs in him, something more than just the baby. He’s not sure what it is yet, but it feels like a crack in the walls of his mind.

She seems so honest.

Gi-hun watches her carefully, his eyes searching for any sign that doesn’t match the kindness she’s giving him.

“Why?” he asks, too softly. “Why are you in this place? Why are you doing this?”

For the first time, there’s a shift in her posture. Her gaze darts to the side for a split second, just long enough for Gi-hun to notice. And then, with a nervous tension that’s impossible to ignore, she looks back at him.

"I-" she begins, but stops, her words unfinished. "I don’t-" She seems to struggle, her hands tightening for a moment. “I’m just doing my job,” she finishes quietly, her voice breaking slightly. It’s not an answer, not a full one.

He feels a tiny seed of frustration blooming in his chest. The answer isn’t enough.

The doctor turns toward the door, her hand reaching for the handle. It’s the smallest sound - a click, a breath - and still, it’s a thunderclap in Gi-hun’s mind.

She’s leaving.

She’s taking the silence with her.

And he - he can’t be left alone with this. Not with what he knows. Not with what he saw.

The words come out like a choke.

“Can you bring Guard 18 to me?” he asks urgently, his voice rougher now. “Please. I need to speak to him. Now.”

The woman freezes, her hand on the door handle, but she doesn’t turn. She doesn’t respond at first, and Gi-hun feels his anxiety spiral higher. He can’t be left alone with this. Not with just his thoughts.

"I can't," she says finally, her words carefully measured. “I don’t have the authority to bring him here. You know how it works.”

No. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t know how anything works anymore.

He grips the sheets harder, his hands trembling with the force of it. “Please,” he says again, more desperate this time. “Just-please, bring him to me. You don’t understand. I need to see him. I need to.”

She turns to face him again, shaking her head gently. “No, I can't. He’s... not available.” She seems to soften a little, looking almost guilty. “But… I can notify the boss. He’s been waiting. He asked to be told the moment you woke up.”

Gi-hun stops breathing.

The monitor responds before he can.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beepbeepbeepbeep-

“Yes,” he says, almost too calmly. “Yes. Let him know I’m awake. I’ll talk to him.”

She nods and the door clicks shut behind her.

Gi-hun stares at the ceiling.

The monitor beside him hums in the silence.

Beep.

He imagines it doesn’t just track his pulse… No. That’s too simple.

Beep.

Maybe it broadcasts. Maybe, in some impossible way, the sound radiates beyond these walls, finds its way to Guard 18.

Beep.

I’m still alive.

Beep.

Do you hear it?

Beep.

Do you know I’m here?

Beep.

Sang-woo, please.

The quiet stretches, punctuated only by his mechanical heartbeat, an endless plea into the darkness.

Then the door clicks again.

Gi-hun opens his eyes slowly. The Front Man enters, cloaked in that familiar black, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. Gi-hun stares, suspicion flaring instinctively.

Dakjuk. Again. Apple slices. A clear glass of water.

He eyes the tray, bitter, wary.

The Front Man sets it gently on the bedside table, then turns slightly to face him. They regard each other silently.

And then, slowly, methodically, the Front Man removes his gloves, one finger at a time. Gi-hun watches unwillingly, transfixed by those hands - graceful, calloused, hauntingly familiar.

“Give me your arm,” the Front Man says softly.

Gi-hun hesitates, anger warring with desperate vulnerability, but eventually extends his bandaged limb. He observes the careful movements - the meticulous way the Front Man peels back the dressing, revealing the neat line of stitches beneath. It’s an unnervingly gentle gesture from a man whose hands should only deal pain.

“That doctor, or a nurse, could’ve done this,” Gi-hun mutters. “Why bother yourself?”

The Front Man doesn’t look up. “It’s fine. I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah?” Gi-hun’s voice curdles. “Lots of prisoners?”

A pause.

“No,” the Front Man says. “People I cared about.”

That stuns Gi-hun, just for a moment. He searches the mask for something. A crack, a twitch. Anything human.

There’s nothing.

And yet-

His gaze drops again to the hands.

The hands are human.

He hates that they’re beautiful.

Hates that he remembers what they felt like on his skin.

Hates the way his heart speeds up when they come near.

“I heard you’ve been breathing easier,” the Front Man says softly, like it’s a compliment.

“I told the doctor everything,” Gi-hun mutters, voice raw. “Shortness of breath, pain, memory, whatever. You don’t need to play caretaker now.”

The Front Man tilts his head. “Nevertheless, I want to hear it from you.”

“I’m fine,” Gi-hun lies.

“Hm.”

A pause. Then:

"You’ve been receiving 0.5 milligrams of morphine per hour," he says clinically. “If the pain persists, we can adjust the dose.”

Gi-hun blinks.

“Morphine?” The word feels too big in his mouth.  “You’re giving me morphine.”

The Front Man’s tone is even. “It’s standard for your injuries. Severe contusions, rib fractures, fluid in the pleura, not to mention the laceration to your arm.”

Gi-hun laughs. It’s not funny. Not at all.

“You had morphine,” he whispers.

The Front Man doesn’t reply.

“You had morphine,” Gi-hun repeats, louder now. “And Jun-hee…Jun-hee gave birth on that dorm. She was bleeding and screaming and no one gave lifted a fucking finger.”

The Front Man remains perfectly still, unmoved. “All Players are equal. To offer one of them special treatment-”

“-means offering it to all, yeah, I’ve heard the speech,” Gi-hun snarls. “Bullshit. She was in labor! She was cut open, you know that, right? Her body - her body - was torn and you just let her lie there.”

A silence.

Then, with unbearable calm, “I remember.”

Gi-hun laughs once, sharp and joyless. 

“God,” he mutters, looking down at the IV in his arm. “You saved the good stuff for me, huh?”

“You were dying.”

Gi-hun looks up slowly, eyes blazing with something far from gratitude.

“Yeah,” he says. “Lucky me.”

He waits for a reaction that never comes. The Front Man remains silent, frustratingly calm as he tears open a sterile packet, unfolds an antiseptic wipe, and begins gently cleaning the stitched skin on Gi-hun’s arm with slow, circular strokes.

Gi-hun’s gaze wavers, restless. He turns his head, eyes flicking away - anywhere but those hands - and lands on the untouched tray of food, steam still curling faintly from the bowl.

Dakjuk.

He stares at it and memory slices through him - the first time he saw that food, the first kindness offered to him after endless days of torment. He remembers hurling it violently to the floor, rice splattering across the tile.

He looks at the Front Man now. Then the food. Then back.

“You just keep circling around the same things, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

Gi-hun nods toward the bowl. “Same porridge. Same tricks. Like you think if you repeat it enough times, I’ll forget who you are.”

“I don’t expect you to forget,” the Front Man says. “I expect you to adjust.”

Gi-hun snorts. “Adjust,” he repeats. “Yeah, sure. Like a collar adjusts to a throat.”

Then he glances around the room.

“So,” he says, voice slow, venomous. “Why am I in a bedroom? Or, as the good little doctor called it - my bedroom.” His voice cracks slightly on the word my, like the idea itself is too absurd to sit still in his mouth. “Since when do I have a bedroom? Why not put me back in the cell? What’s the point of all this?”

He gestures broadly - to the room, the sheets, the warmth that sickens him now.

“You’re recovering,” the Front Man says simply. “Faster recovery requires comfort. Stability.”

Gi-hun stares, wide-eyed, something unraveling behind his expression.

“That’s what this is? You think sheets and Dakjuk undo the cell and the screaming and the shit and the-”

He cuts himself off, breathing hard.

“This room is just a prettier box,” he spits. “You’ve redecorated the cage.”

The Front Man doesn’t rise to it.

“So what?” Gi-hun says after a moment, his voice quieter now. “When this is over, I go back to my cell?”

There’s a beat. The sound of the monitor fills the space - beep. beep. beep. 

The Front Man says nothing at first. Just turns his head slightly, like he’s choosing his words from a shelf full of curated lies.

“You know what you have to say,” he says gently, “to remain here.”

And there it is.

He knows exactly what the Front Man wants to hear. He can see it so clearly it might as well be projected on the wall - his own voice saying it, mouth forming the shape of yes.

The image stings. A white mask. A white uniform. A role. A promise.

A proposal.

Gi-hun feels it press against him like a hand on the back of his neck.

He lifts his head, jaw trembling.

“What you want me to say,” he whispers, voice trembling on the knife-edge of fury, “you’ll die waiting to hear.”

The silence afterward is perfect. Absolute. It fills the room like water, rising inch by inch until there’s no air left, until drowning feels inevitable, merciful even. Neither moves, neither speaks, both knowing that the next word could rupture everything they've built.

Eventually, Gi-hun shifts slightly, his body betraying discomfort or perhaps something closer to surrender, and the words drift softly from him, unbidden:

“You said something earlier,” Gi-hun mutters, voice lower now. “About caring.”

The Front Man glances at him, but says nothing. Just keeps cleaning his arm methodically.

“You said you used to do this for people you cared about.”

Still no answer.

“Who?”

A pause.

“I don’t see what that has to do with-”

“No, no, let’s talk about it. Because I’m curious,” Gi-hun says, suddenly mocking. He leans forward slightly, the IV line pulling at his arm, but he ignores it. “You, caring. It’s a funny image.”

The Front Man’s silence feels intentional now, but Gi-hun can sense the cracks beneath it. And it thrills him, as much as it frightens him.

“Funny?” the Front Man echoes quietly. “Why?”

Gi-hun laughs bitterly. “Because care implies you can lose something. That you can hurt. And you - you’re the one always dealing the pain. You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you? Always detached, in control. Care makes you vulnerable, doesn’t it? And that's not something you do. You don’t get hurt. You just cause it.”

The Front Man remains still, but his silence has changed texture. Less confident. More human.

“Is that what you think?” he finally murmurs. “That I haven’t experienced loss?”

Gi-hun meets the mask’s hollow gaze with defiance, but beneath the bravado, there’s curiosity now. Raw. Genuine.

“Have you?” Gi-hun asks, quieter now, eyes darkening, voice softer in spite of himself.

“Yes.” The reply is immediate. 

Gi-hun swallows. “Who?”

A pause. The Front Man chooses his words carefully. “Someone I couldn’t save.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches, barely audible. A small victory - but it feels like standing at the edge of something deep and dangerous. He wants to retreat but can’t stop himself from stepping forward.

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”

“Couldn’t.” The Front Man repeats the word like it carries weight. Like he’s been holding it for too long. “Despite what you believe, some things are beyond my control.”

Gi-hun’s eyes flash. “Beyond your control?”

The monitor flinches with him.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beep-beep-

“No,” he hisses, louder than before. “No, fuck that. You don’t get to say that. You don’t.”

The Front Man holds still. Then, with practiced care, he peels the antiseptic pad from Gi-hun’s arm from. He turns and drops it soundlessly into the medical disposer nearby.

“You don’t get to pretend you’re just some - some passenger in all this. You control everything,” Gi-hun spits, voice sharp and trembling, leaning forward, almost tipping from the bed. “You pick who lives, who dies, who fucking doesn’t get to die. You decide who bleeds out on the floor, who gets patched up again, who gets buried, and who gets dug back up.”

His hands clench in the sheets. The world narrows.

“I’ve been-” He laughs, high, unhinged. “Jesus. I’ve been dancing around this. Like we could pretend we weren’t headed here. But we are. We’ve always been. And I’m done pretending.”

He glares at the Front Man. The mask. The silence.

“Let’s say it out loud.”

Another beat.

“I mean, fuck, right? We both know what we’re talking about.”

The Front Man is still. Waiting. Watching.

Gi-hun inhales sharply.

“Sang-woo.”

Silence.

The Front Man doesn’t flinch, but Gi-hun sees it, just beneath the mask, something stilling.

“I don’t know how you did it. How he survived. Maybe you stitched him up, maybe you bribed someone, maybe you dragged his corpse out of that fucking arena and patched him together like a broken doll. But you didn’t bury him, did you?”

Silence. The monitor is screaming now.

Beepbeepbeepbeep.

“You couldn’t let him go,” Gi-hun whispers. “Just like I can’t.”

The Front Man turns his head. “You shouldn’t say that name.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Gi-hun snaps. “There’s no rule in hell about names. I’ll say it again: Sang-woo. Cho Sang-woo."

“Guard 18 is not him.”

“Bullshit.”

“He isn’t.”

“But he moves like him. He breathes like him. He hesitates-”

“You’re projecting,” the Front Man responds quietly.

“No,” Gi-hun barks, voice cracking now. “No, I’d love to be crazy. That would be a fucking relief. But I know what I see. I know what I feel. Every hesitation, every trembling breath, every time Guard 18 falters - he’s still there. You couldn’t kill him completely, so you broke him instead.”

The Front Man remains unfazed.

“Or perhaps,” he says evenly, “you’ve invented hope where none exists. Clinging to illusions to avoid confronting reality. It’s human. Expected, even. But dangerous.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “Dangerous? To who? You? Because it ruins the fantasy that I’m just another dog waiting for your scraps?”

The Front Man lays a fresh strip of gauze over the wound, his fingers precise as he starts winding the bandage around Gi-hun’s arm.

“We all see what we want to see, Player 456.” The Front Man continues. “It’s easier to blame ghosts than accept the truth.”

Gi-hun jerks away from the touch, trembling. “What truth? That Sang-woo died and still brings me food? That he died and still hesitates before hitting me? What kind of truth is that?!”

The Front Man is silent for a beat. Then-

“The mind finds ways to cope with grief. Yours manifests by merging the past with the present. Sang-woo is gone. Guard 18 is a soldier. Nothing more.”

Gi-hun’s voice softens, trembling, cracking open. “But I feel him. He’s still there. You can’t lie to me. Not about this.”

“Emotion is not evidence,” the Front Man replies calmly. “It’s narrative. The brain searching for comfort in familiar shapes.”

Gi-hun leans forward, defiant, burning.

“Why won’t you say it outright then? If you’re so certain, why won’t you tell me clearly that he isn’t Sang-woo?”

The silence that follows hangs thick, unbearably heavy.

Then, softly - so gently it nearly breaks Gi-hun - comes the reply:

“Because it wouldn’t matter.”

Gi-hun reels back slightly, confusion flaring in his eyes. “What?”

The Front Man leans forward. “Because, to you, he will always be Cho Sang-woo, regardless of truth. If I tell you he is gone, you’ll never believe it. If I tell you he lives, you’ll never let go. Both outcomes trap you. Both outcomes destroy you.”

Gi-hun stares, mouth open but voiceless.

The Front Man presses closer to the wound again.

“You want me to confirm a reality you’ve already decided on. Your grief, your hope, has already decided what you believe. My words will never change it.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, slowly now, eyes darting side to side as his world tilts. “I saw him. He recognized me. He hesitated-”

“And what if he did?” the Front Man interrupts, gently, relentlessly. “If Guard 18 hesitated, does that mean he is Sang-woo? Or does it simply mean he’s human? Does every moment of compassion have to be evidence of someone else beneath that mask, Player 456? Or is compassion itself so alien to you now that it can only belong to a dead man?”

Gi-hun’s breath hitches. He stares at the Front Man like he’s drowning, desperate for a lifeline, yet terrified of what grabbing it would mean.

“You’re lying,” Gi-hun whispers weakly, voice barely audible. “You have to be.”

“I don’t lie,” the Front Man says, without hesitation. “I never have. Not to you.”

Gi-hun stares at the far wall like it might unravel this entire place, but it’s hollow.

“Then why does everything you say feel like a trick?”

The beep of the monitor begins to slow again, heavy, dragging like footsteps in mud.

“I just want him back.” Gi-hun mutters.

Five words, and it’s like they knock the wind out of the room.

“I just…” Gi-hun swallows. “I don’t care what you’ve done to him. I don’t care if he’s a soldier or a ghost or a monster. I’d take him broken. I’d take him as anything. I just want him back.”

The Front Man doesn’t move.

Gi-hun’s voice thins. “Why would you do that to him? Why would you make him… do that to me? Beat me like that? That wasn’t punishment. Not for me. It was for him.”

The monitor ticks louder again. A static metronome to madness.

“Was it supposed to make me hate him?” Gi-hun asks, eyes burning. “Make me see you as the gentle hand - the one that feeds, that bandages, that cleans? Was that the trick? Pain from him, comfort from you?”

The words hang in the air, brittle and shaking, but the truth underneath them is worse - that it worked, at least a little.

“I want him back,” Gi-hun whispers, eyes bright and wet, voice breaking entirely. “I want Sang-woo.”

The Front Man finishes tying the final strip of gauze, securing it with a practiced twist.

But his hand doesn’t leave.

Instead, it drifts. Just slightly. Across the skin beside the bandage, where the bruising blooms purple and yellow.

Gi-hun stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“You were incredibly fortunate,” the Front Man murmurs softly. "The cut you made was reckless. Had it been angled slightly deeper, you would have severed your median nerve. You'd lose function of your thumb, index and middle fingers, permanently.”

He pauses, fingertips brushing lightly over Gi-hun’s inner arm - slow, tracing the skin like it’s a map. Gi-hun forgets how to breathe. He hates how easily he drifts into the feeling, how warm those hands are, how real.

“But more dangerous than that, just half a centimeter deeper and you would have sliced into the brachial artery. A wound like that, you wouldn't even have made it out of the cell. You would have bled out right there on the floor. Your escape plan was... short-sighted.”

Gi-hun lifts his gaze, suddenly breathless. “You sound almost worried.”

The silence that follows feels too delicate, as though even breathing might shatter it.

At last, the Front Man answers, his voice low, edged softly with something that might be regret. "I've already buried enough of what mattered. I wasn't prepared to bury you too."

The words barely land at first - just noise beneath the hum of his pulse. But then Gi-hun’s breath stalls.

He’s heard that voice like this before - fractured, raw in a way it was never meant to be. And for a split second, he knows the Front Man is remembering it too. That day. That moment. The cold press of a gun against his own head. The heat of desperation flooding his limbs. The exposed wound in the Front Man’s voice as it said his name - "Gi-hun."

It was just a name, but it had fallen between them like a prayer, like the first gasp of air after drowning.

"You haven't called me by my name since that day," he says softly, words frayed at the edges. "Not once, since you thought I'd actually pull the trigger."

The Front Man’s fingers pause, hovering just above Gi-hun’s wound, as if trapped by the weight of the moment.

"Your name isn’t something I can afford to say casually."

Gi-hun searches the emptiness behind the mask, looking for something, anything, that could anchor him to certainty. "Then why say it at all?"

The quiet that stretches between them is longer now. Without warning, the Front Man gently takes Gi-hun’s hand, a gesture tender and impossibly sincere, as though to prove something words could never carry.

“Because if I hadn’t said it,” the Front Man says quietly, “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here to hear anything at all.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches. His eyes drift closed, surrendering just for a second to the warmth he shouldn't crave, to the softness of a touch delivered by the very hand responsible for his ruin. Cruelty had never felt so gentle, so heartbreakingly kind.

"Why do this? Why pretend you care, when you’re the one who put me here?"

The Front Man’s grip tightens. "Not every gesture of compassion masks cruelty. Sometimes kindness is simply… kindness."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lets go, leaving behind only aching emptiness.

"Eat the dakjuk," he whispers softly, nodding toward the tray. "It's growing cold."

Gi-hun watches him rise. As the Front Man reaches the door, Gi-hun’s voice trembles into the silence, quiet yet pleading.

“Let me see him,” he whispers softly. “Please.”

The Front Man pauses, hand resting heavily on the door’s handle. A long, bitter silence fills the gap before his reply comes.

“No,” he says quietly, “I can’t. “

Gi-hun’s chest tightens painfully, the expected refusal somehow still stinging like a fresh wound. But then, quieter, gentler - he hears words he hadn't anticipated:

“I’ve already risked far more than you realize, letting him near you at all. It won’t happen again.”

Gi-hun’s brows knit in quiet confusion, the room spinning slowly around him. The door shuts quietly, gently, a whisper of finality as devastating as any scream.

He sits frozen, pulse racing, bewilderment spreading like poison through his veins.

Until now, he'd believed he understood perfectly. The Front Man had placed Sang-woo - or Guard 18, whoever he truly was - near him intentionally, a calculation designed to slice through Gi-hun’s sanity. He'd assumed cruelty was the sole motivation, that proximity was just another layer of the Front Man’s perfect torment.

But if that was true, why had he said that?

"I’ve already risked far more than you realize, letting him near you at all.”

Gi-hun’s mind shudders. If placing Guard 18 near him was dangerous - if the Front Man genuinely feared their closeness - why gamble with it at all? Why introduce such a volatile element into his meticulously controlled environment? It couldn’t have been merely to watch Gi-hun suffer; the Front Man had endless, easier ways to inflict pain.

No, something else was at play. Something Gi-hun hadn’t seen, hadn’t considered. A hidden motive that made the Front Man cautious, uncertain, perhaps even afraid.

Had he misjudged everything? Had the Front Man never intended Guard 18 to come close at all?

If so, what changed? What slipped out of the Front Man’s grasp, forcing him to concede to a risk he never wanted to take?

Gi-hun’s stomach knots with confusion and anxiety.

And then, he glances numbly toward the waiting tray - dakjuk, carefully sliced apple, clear, untainted water. Real nourishment, placed gently before him by a man who’d meticulously torn him apart.

His fingers twitch.

The spoon is in his hand before he knows it.

He doesn’t remember reaching for it. He only knows that the bowl is closer now, and the steam is kissing his face, and his eyes are stinging for reasons he doesn’t understand.

The first bite is not elegant.

He leans forward, and the spoon clatters against the ceramic in his shaking grip. The rice hits his tongue and dissolves into something warm and weightless. Tender threads of chicken melt through layers of numbness, bringing him to life, quietly and cruelly, from the inside out.

A small sound escapes him, uninvited. Something between a sob and a moan.

He doesn’t stop.

The second bite is faster. The third is frantic. He slurps and shovels like a man who’s never eaten before, who’s forgotten how to chew, how to breathe. The spoon scrapes desperately. His teeth clack. He swallows too quickly, coughs, keeps going.

He hates how good it is. How perfectly it’s made. The temperature. The seasoning. The salt just barely clinging to the edge of sweetness, the chicken pulling apart like it wants to be eaten. This wasn’t thrown together.

This was crafted.

For him.

He eats like an animal offered a miracle, and the miracle is also a leash.

By the fifth spoonful, there are tears in his eyes.

The shame is there too, coiling somewhere beneath the pleasure. It bides its time. He can feel it, circling like a vulture.

Not yet, it whispers. First, eat.

And he does.

He devours.

Because it’s not just food. It’s safety. It’s heat. It’s memory. It’s kindness - delivered so tenderly it feels like permission to surrender.

He eats until he forgets he was ever angry.

When it’s over, he stares into the faint sheen left at the bottom, a subtle reflection distorted in traces of oil and flavor - blurred, unrecognizable, a stranger staring back at him from the depths of ceramic emptiness.

The apple sits untouched. Something about it feels… indulgent. A bite too far. A line crossed. Like taking more would mean wanting more - and wanting more is exactly how you get ruined in here.

So instead, he reaches for the water. His fingers close around the glass like it might shatter, and he drinks. Not greedily. Just enough to rinse the salt and shame from his mouth.

Then, Gi-hun slumps back, his stomach full, his body aching, his mind fraying at the edges of language. He should feel stronger. He doesn’t.

He feels tamed.

The monitor beside him continues its vigil.

Beep.

You’re fed.

Beep.

You’re grateful.

Beep.

You ache for the hand that fed you.

Beep.

You’ve stopped remembering what it felt like to starve.

Tears slide down his cheeks in silence, caught somewhere between shame and ecstasy.

And as he stares into the curve of the empty bowl, still catching the heat of his own breath, Gi-hun whispers into the space where his will used to be:

“I would’ve rather died hungry.”

But the heat in his belly disagrees.

 

 

 

Gi-hun wakes with the taste of dakjuk still warm in his mouth and the distinct, inescapable feeling that something is wrong.

Dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

Not the comfortable golden haze from before, not the faux-hotel glow that made the room feel like a sedated dream. This darkness is intentional. Heavy. All-consuming. Like someone dipped the entire room in black ink and forgot to pull it back out.

The warmth from the sheets no longer comforts him. The silence is no longer silence. It is absence. Something has been taken.

Someone turned off the lights.

While he slept.

Someone was in here.

Someone stood over him in the dark and flipped the world off.

His breath shortens. His throat begins to close in a slow, squeezing grip.

The machines beside him hum. The heart monitor flickers green.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

No. No. He can’t be here. He’s not supposed to still be here.

He glances down - five, maybe six electrodes cling to his chest, thin wires snaking from the pads to the machines beside him.

He rips the first one off.

It burns.

A hot, electric sting blooms under the pad and he hisses out loud, body jerking. Another rip. Another. His hands are shaking now, tugging the final few loose with trembling fury, and each one leaves a sting behind, like the remnants of control trying to claw its way back in.

He wants them off. He wants them off.

Finally, the machine shrieks.

Beeeeeeeep.

Flatline.

He almost laughs. Wouldn't that be a goddamn relief?

Then, he turns to the IV.

The catheter’s deeper. The needle is under his skin, the tape criss-crossed like it’s protecting treasure. He peels it back in shaky layers, trying to slide the access port out. But it won’t come. It’s seated too deep, locked in by his own blood and the weight of stillness.

Fine. Fine. Fine.

He grabs the IV pole instead. The wheels groan softly on the polished floor as he drags it with him, the stand swaying behind like some half-dead animal being pulled by its chain. 

He makes it to the door and reaches for the handle.

It doesn’t move.

Locked.

No.

No no no no no not again not again not again.

He presses harder. The handle won’t budge. He rattles it once, softly. Then again, louder.

“Open!” he gasps. “Open the fucking-”

He slams his palm into the door, again and again, voice catching in the base of his throat.

He knows exactly what this is. He’s back. He’s in that cell. He’s locked in and the air is too thin and the walls are watching him and he can’t-

No. No. Stop. Think.

He used to do this. Back then, when he was a kid. When a door was just a suggestion and rules were lies to trick stupid people.

You needed something stiff, flat, flexible. Like a credit card. Something that could wedge between the lock and the latch plate. Pop the catch.

He pushes himself away from the door, limping back toward the bedside table, dragging the IV stand with him like a prisoner tugging a ball and chain. He falls against it and his hands fumble the drawer open, eyes blind in the dark.

His hand swims through it, fingertips grazing cotton swabs, smooth surfaces, rounded bottles. He can't see but he knows. The Front Man thought of everything. Every comfort. Every tool. Because of course he did. He’d attended to every need - fed him, warmed him, fixed him - so of course-

His hand finds it. A pill case. A plastic blister pack. Thin enough. Flexible enough.

He pulls it free, runs back to the door, and slides it in. Right between the latch and the frame.

He leans all his weight in.

Nothing.

Then he angles it, twists just a little - and click.

The door gives.

He’s out.

He’s out.

He stumbles forward into the corridor. It’s darker here. More open, but more menacing.

However, there are no pink suits. No shuffling feet. No voice through the speaker announcing Player 456 escaped again. Just dark. Just open. Just empty.

At the far end, the outline of the main entrance waits: a wide, black rectangle cut into the wall like a wound. The sight of it halts him. He stands for a second too long, staring.

Escape.

The word slices in sideways, like a splinter under the skin. There is no logic in it, no formed thought. Just raw, red instinct.

He needs  to get out.

He begins to walk fast.

The IV wheels shriek a little now as they struggle to keep up, bumping awkwardly over the smooth floor. 

Faster.

Because if he stops, he’ll see it again - the room. The door. The handle that didn’t turn. The one they locked while he was sleeping, while he was too weak to fight.

He moves like he’s being chased.

His bare feet slap against the cold floor, the hem of the hospital gown fluttering around his legs, the IV tube tugging faintly at his arm with each step like a reminder: you are still tethered.

He just needs to get out. Just needs to get out.

One more second inside this place and he will die. One more breath and he will cease.

Then it hits him.

A sudden, stunning spear of pain, like something snaps behind his right ribs. Not a single ache or pressure. No - this is stabbing. Sharp, punishing, multiple punctures with every breath, like invisible knives have been driven between his ribs and now twist with every gasp he dares to take. His body buckles mid-step.

A second stab. Higher. Hotter.

Then a third - lower, angling inward like it’s trying to pierce his lung from the inside.

He claws at his chest, hand curling over his ribs where the doctor had pressed her stethoscope and said - what had she said?

“You had a pleural effusion, blood and fluid collecting around the lung.”

“We expect the rest of the fluid to reabsorb naturally.”

Bullshit.

There’s nothing natural about this. There’s a wetness inside him that doesn’t belong there. He can feel it shifting, sloshing, pressing against the brittle cage of his ribs like a second heartbeat that isn’t his.

His knees buckle, enough to list him sideways, crashing his shoulder into the wall. The IV stand clatters beside him, tipping precariously. He catches it just in time, hand white-knuckled on the cold metal.

Breathe. Breathe.

He can't.

He stands like that - twisted, panting, forehead pressed to something smooth and cold - bracing himself against his own breaking body. He squeezes his eyes shut, sees stars.

His ribs scream. His lungs feel full of glass.

The surface beneath his hands is unyielding, cool. Metal?

He blinks, dazed, and lets his fingers drift along it, finding the edge, the seam.

A frame.

A hinge.

The thought forms slowly, like a ripple breaking through fog.

And then it hits him.

He’s leaning on a door.

And it’s open.

He tilts his head, just enough to peer into the dark beyond. Nothing. 

What if-

But his legs are already shifting, muscles tight with resistance. One slow, trembling step.

Then another.

He stumbles inside.

And now here he is - chest heaving, barefoot, stitched and trembling - inside that room.

The Front Man’s workplace.

And there, like last time, are the two desks.

One still empty, a single chair pushed back as if waiting for someone it’s grown tired of waiting for. His desk.

The other is unmistakably lived-in. Not chaotic - never that - but used. It’s been tidied since he last saw it, papers stacked with eerie precision, dustless surfaces betraying recent touch. And at the center of the cleared space: a small, almost delicate lamp.

Gi-hun moves toward it like a sleepwalker, dragging the IV stand with him. His right-side screams with every breath, the pain stabbing inward in irregular rhythms - like someone slowly playing a knife across the inside of his ribs, shifting the angle, changing the tempo. He grits his teeth and reaches for the lamp.

Click.

A warm glow spills across the desk and he realizes there’s only one file placed at the center of the table.

He hesitates - then flips it open.

Her face stares up at him, frozen in time. Hyun-ju.

It’s a surveillance photograph - not from the Games - but outside an ATM, lit by the gray Seoul afternoon. On the screen of the ATM, bright green digits flicker across the glass.

 ₩45,600,000,000.

Their blood money.

Gi-hun’s stomach rolls.

He closes the folder gently, like he's shutting a casket. But before he does, he sees her face again on the front page, printed in full color. Staring forward like she sees him. Like she knows.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

The light above the desk hums softly. And something in Gi-hun’s breath shifts.

Because-

If this is here…

If this file is here, then somewhere - somewhere in this curated sanctum of horror - there must be more. There must be answers.

Answers for everything the Front Man would never say.

Answers he’s been clawing toward in dreams and beatings and desperate prayers to ghosts.

Answers about-

Sang-woo.

His eyes flick up, drawn magnetically to the shelf behind the desk. It rises in dark panels toward the ceiling, filled with meticulously arranged binders and folders, dossiers and volumes, each spine embossed with numbers and names and years.

He moves toward it without thinking, drawn forward by something tight and pulsing in his chest. He scans the rows. His eyes dart. Fingers follow.

And then - he sees it.

2020 FINALISTS

His heart flutters.

He reaches up on tiptoe, stretching past the pain blooming like bruised stars in his right side. The IV bag sloshes faintly as he moves, dragging the stand a few inches across the floor. Just as his fingers close around the file, his elbow knocks the edge of the adjacent binder.

CRACK.

Gi-hun flinches so violently he nearly drops the one in his hand.

He freezes.

Listens.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No mask in the doorway. The Front Man, if he sleeps here, and Gi-hun knows he does, must not have stirred. Or if he did, he’s watching.

Always watching.

Gi-hun doesn’t wait. He places the 2020 dossier on the nearest desk - his desk - and flips it open with fingers that shake too much.

And there she is.

Sae-byeok.

It’s the photograph she took before Red Light, Green Light. Her face is tilted slightly to the left, the barest flicker of a smile pressed to her lips - half amused, half resigned. A smile done for the camera. Performed. Practiced. But funny somehow. She’s not good at it, and she knows it, and the result is so her that Gi-hun’s chest folds inward.

He stares at her for a long moment.

Then his hand, trembling, lifts to brush across the photograph. His fingers pass over her cheek, down the bridge of her nose, as if touch could make memory real again.

He failed her.

Failed her brother.

Failed her mother, still trapped behind a border that divides blood from blood. If he doesn’t get out of here - if he doesn’t escape, if he doesn’t win, somehow - they’ll never be reunited.

He blinks hard, refocusing, and turns the page.

It’s all there. A record of her performance. The teams she joined. The Players she stood beside. The outcomes of each round. Every strategic note, every observation, every violent detail reduced to cold sentences.

And then - the line.

Eliminated: Post-Game 5. Severed carotid artery. Estimated time of death: 03:37.

He exhales through his teeth and flips the page again.

It ends. Her file is thin. Insultingly thin. Sae-byeok, who bled and fought and clung to life with her nails, reduced to four pages and a number.

The pain in his side stabs again. He grips the edge of the desk with bloodless knuckles, waiting for it to pass.

Then he turns the page.

He doesn’t even need to read the name.

Player 218. Cho Sang-woo.

The photograph punches the breath from his chest.

It’s him. God, it’s him.

The picture is simple, just like Sae-byeok’s - a static Game-issued portrait against that same wall. Sang-woo’s expression is cold, his mouth neutral, eyes unreadable. But there’s something in them - stillness, calculation, exhaustion, like a man who already knows how his story ends. No smile, not even the ghost of one.

Gi-hun's hand rises and, without thought, passes over Sang-woo’s face, a trembling thumb skimming the surface of the photo. His fingers hesitate just below the line of the neck - right where the knife went in. He shudders.

His chest tightens like a trap closing.

He flips the page.

Sang-woo’s file is not thin.

It's thick.

Brutally thick.

He scans quickly at first - he can’t help it.

The first section covers basic information - name, age, education. Then it transitions into the Games.

His eyes skim past the first entries. Red Light, Green Light. Dalgona.

He stops at Tug of War. His eyes catch on a bolded assessment, typed in the clean, detached prose of whoever had been watching them like animals:

Player instigated formation strategy; recommended tactical change which altered team odds. Considered decisive tactical leader.

He stares at that one for a while. Something like pride curls in his throat, bitter and sweet. That was him. That voice shouting “Three steps forward!”, standing on the edge of death and thinking it through anyway.

And then - the Marbles Game.

Gi-hun’s breath halts. There’s a large block of text here, much larger than before. And it hurts to see it. The text box practically bleeds into the margins, bracketed in red: EXCEPTIONAL PLAYER REPORT. It includes times. Dialogues. Strategic deception analysis.

Gi-hun refuses to read it. Because Sang-woo never told him what happened in that Game. Never explained what he did. How he won. How Ali lost.

He flips the page violently.

Glass Bridge. He sees mention of the glassmaker. Just: Player 218 pushed Player 17, resulting in elimination.

He moves on.

Post-Game 5. Sae-byeok. Her number again. Killed by 218. Fatal cervical wound.

He skips it. He has to.

And then Squid Game. The final line on the page reads: Player 218 yielded to 456. Fatal self-inflicted stab wound to the left cervical triangle.

That’s it? That’s all?

He shakes his head, breath shallow. No. No, it doesn’t feel like an ending. Not with what he’s seen. Not with what he’s felt.

His fingers tremble as they flip one more page.

And there it is.

  MEDICAL CASE REPORT – CONFIDENTIAL
Name: Player 218 (Cho Sang-Woo)

He goes still.

No.

His eyes race. He reads in diagonals, in spirals, in collapsing patterns that make no logical sense.

PRESENTATION: 46 y/o male found supine… stab wound… cervical region… SCM-midline intersection… Zone II…

What? What does that mean? What does any of that mean?

Gi-hun reads it again, slower. His eyes snatch at fragments, trip over them.

“Zone II.” That’s his neck, right?

Oropharyngeal blood. SpO₂ 83% on room air.

What is that? What is 83? Is that good? Is that bad? The numbers don’t help. They look like numbers but they feel like sentences in another language. The blood is in his mouth. He’s choking. Sang-woo’s choking. Choking on blood and air and-

AIRWAY MANAGEMENT: Airway compromised. Massive bleeding into oral cavity. Distorted anatomy. Cervical hematoma. OTI attempted x2. Failed due to poor laryngoscopic view. 

Failed. Failed. Failed. What failed? His airway. His breathing. They tried twice. And then-

Cormack-Lehane IV.

I don’t know what this means I don’t know what this means I don’t know-

Tracheostomy performed bedside.

Gi-hun’s hand flies up, slams against his own throat. There. There, where the skin is soft and whole and untouched. There. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the trachea. Windpipe? Is that it? Tracheostomy. It has the word trachea.

“I don’t-” his voice cracks. “I don’t know what that means, I don’t…Sang-woo-”

Horizontal incision, 2nd tracheal ring. Blunt dissection. Digital pressure. Arterial spurting. 6.0 mm tracheostomy tube placed. Capnography confirmed.

Gi-hun reads the words but all he sees is him, Sang-woo, choking, drowning, clawing at air while someone holds a knife and someone else presses down to stop the blood and they’re cutting his fucking throat open while he’s awake, he must’ve been awake, and oh God-

Rapid stabilization of SpO₂ to 98% post-intubation.

But... it worked. They got the air in. Somehow. They made him breathe again. The hole in his throat let him live.

BLEEDING CONTROL: Wound tamponaded. IV ×2 (16G), transfusion initiated immediately: PRBC ×4, FFP ×2, TXA 1g IV bolus. Estimated blood loss ~1.5 L.

Too much. That’s too much. That’s all of it. That’s most of it. That’s-

IMAGING & SURGICAL EXPLORATION: Transferred to OR. No pre-op imaging due to instability. Platysma divided. Hematoma evacuated. IJV laceration ligated proximally and distally. No evident CCA or ICA injury. Hypoglossal nerve visualized, intact. Partial laceration of SCM and omohyoid, repaired. Knife tract: oblique, anterior to vertebral column. Esophagus intact. Laryngeal cartilages displaced, not penetrated. Penrose drain in situ. Layered closure.

Words words words. So many. And not one of them says what he wants. Not one says “he’s okay.” Not one says “he smiled.” Not one says “he called your name.”

POSTOPERATIVE COURSE: ICU-level monitoring x10 days. Tracheostomy maintained for 14 days. GCS improved daily - full return to 15/15 by D6.

Fifteen. That’s good, isn’t it?

NUTRITION NPO D0–D4. NG tube initiated D5. Oral sips D10. Solids tolerated by D15. Full diet D20.

That’s what does it. The food. That’s the thing that shatters him.

Not the bleeding. Not the incision. Not the knife pulled out from under the jaw.

The feeding.

Gi-hun lets out a strangled sob. He can’t stop it. The idea - the image - of Sang-woo unable to eat, being fed through a tube. Lips closed around a straw. A nurse holding a spoon to his mouth, guiding his jaw. The man who once balanced billion-won investments, who always cut his meat precisely, who drank black coffee like it was proof of adulthood - learning to chew again.

VOICE: Aphonia → Whisper D10 → Hoarse speech D18 → Near-normal phonation D30

He breaks again.

He thinks of Sang-woo alone in the dark. Mouth opening. Nothing coming out. Then one sound. Then two. Then-

“Gi-hun,” he must’ve said. Must’ve. Must’ve. Again and again until his voice remembered who he was.

Gi-hun can't stop crying. Ugly, stuttering sobs that rock his whole body. His throat burns. His chest hurts. His tears fall on the paper, blotting the words. He doesn’t care. He wants to drown in it.

PAIN MANAGEMENT : VAS 8/10 → 3/10 by D12. Morphine PCA x3 days → Oral tramadol.

NEUROLOGICAL EXAM : No focal deficits. MMSE 28/30 by D10.

“Twenty-eight,” Gi-hun whispers. “You’re still there. You’re still you, Sang-woo, aren't you?”

PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION: Agitation noted D3–8: insomnia, refusal of care. Required haloperidol IM ×3. Formal psychiatric consult D9: noted post-traumatic dissociation, survivor guilt, context-specific psychotic features. Expressed suicidal ideation D10: “I should have died there.” Escitalopram 10 mg initiated. Compliant with meds. Passive ideation only by 20.

He reads that line again. And again.

“I should have died there.”

No. No. No.

You came back. You came back.

He drops the dossier. It falls like a body.

And he does too.

His knees hit the floor. Then his elbows. He hugs the dossier to him like it’s a body, like it’s warm, like if he just holds it tighter, Sang-woo will be inside it.

He weeps. Not because he’s broken.

But because he was right.

“Sang-woo…” he sobs, “Sang-woo, Sang-woo-”

You’re alive.

You’re alive.

You fed me. You protected me. You held my hand. You... beat me. But you were there. I wasn’t imagining you. I wasn’t-

“I’m not crazy.”

It comes out hoarse. Pathetic. Like it doesn’t believe itself. He repeats it anyway, again, and again, chest heaving, fists clenched around the pages like they're a dying animal, like if he lets go, Sang-woo dies for real this time.

“I’m not crazy. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not-”

And suddenly-

Light.

A long blade of it opens across the floor, stretching, expanding, the way the sun might rise in a dream you’re trying to wake from.

Gi-hun lifts his head slowly, disoriented.

The shadow follows. A figure cast long and thin across the ground. Feet first. Then the coat. Then the silhouette that makes his blood run backwards.

Gi-hun flinches and almost falls sideways from where he’s curled on the floor.

“Wait, wait,” he breathes, blinking hard. His voice is slurred, soaked in mucus and tears, like it’s being pulled from the bottom of a flooded well.

He holds out the file. His hands shake. Pages droop.

“Look. Just - look.” His mouth stammers ahead of his thoughts. “Did you - did you see this? Do you - do you know what this is?”

His eyes are glassy, lips parted in disbelief. He clutches the folder closer to his chest like he suddenly wants to keep it from the world.

“It's him,” Gi-hun says, voice cracking. “It's him. He's-he's not gone. He’s here. He’s here.”

He holds the dossier out with both hands again, offering it like a bleeding heart.

“And you-” his breath hiccups, “-you told me he was dead.”

And there it is.

A beat of silence cracks open, wide enough for understanding to fall through.

Gi-hun’s eyes sharpen. His body stills from clarity. That awful, burning clarity that cuts cleaner than panic ever could.

“You said he was dead.”

The file trembles in his hands.

“You told me - you told me he was gone. But, oh. Oh.” He laughs, choked and trembling. “You knew. You, you fucking knew.”

His breath falters.

“You lied.”

Then it shifts. The storm breaks.

“You fucking LIED!”

With a strangled sob, Gi-hun throws the folder across the room. Pages burst into the air, spinning like broken wings.

They scatter in front of the Front Man’s feet and the man just watches, silent. Then he kneels and begins gathering the pages with the quiet solemnity of a man preparing an exhibit for a museum. Gloved fingers collect the scattered pages - Sang-woo’s name, his face, the blood loss and the voice recovery and the line that says he should have died there. Gathering it all with such care, such indifference.

And then-

He turns and walks to the wall.

Gi-hun doesn’t understand at first.

Until he sees it. The shelf.

“No…” he says quietly.

The Front Man doesn’t stop.

“No. No. What are you - what are you doing?”

The Front Man slides the dossier back into place. And that’s what does it. That’s what breaks the fever.

“NO!”

He scrambles to his feet, swaying, nearly collapsing, knees screaming - but he moves. The IV pole groans behind him, the tubing stretching taut, and he stumbles forward, throwing his weight against the Front Man, grabbing his jacket with both fists.

“You don’t just put him away! He’s not a file! He’s not a fucking document!”

He pulls hard, and the motion yanks the IV pole too far - the stand lurches, skidding sideways with a metallic screech as the tubing tugs at the crook of his arm.

It begins to tip.

But the crash never comes.

The Front Man catches it - one hand shooting out, fast, precise, steady. The pole wobbles, sways, but doesn’t fall.

Gi-hun jerks back, startled, breath catching in his throat. His fingers loosen from the coat without meaning to, like shame and rage and confusion have all tangled into the same helpless tremor.

The Front Man doesn’t say anything. Just turns, calmly, checks the fluid bag. Tilts it. Watches the slow drip. Then glances down at Gi-hun’s arm.

Without warning, he turns Gi-hun’s arm by the wrist, inspecting the site. His gloved fingers ghost over the bruised skin, over the bandage half-loose with sweat.

Gi-hun jerks.

“Don’t touch me!” he barks, yanking his arm away. “Don’t - don’t pretend to give a shit!”

“You’re dehydrated,” the Front Man says calmly.

“Fuck you.” The words are spit. They taste like rust. “Fuck you. You don’t get to be a nurse now. Not after what you did. Not after what you - what you knew.”

The Front Man only watches him.

Gi-hun’s chest heaves. He looks at the shelf, at the dossier resting there again, so neat. So final.

“You said he was dead.” Gi-hun says again.

“I told the truth.” The Front Man replies, calm as frost. “There is no Cho Sang-woo.”

Gi-hun stares at him, and something cracks.

“Yes, there is.” His voice is shaking now. “There is. He’s right fucking there. Don’t you dare talk about him like that. Don’t you dare.”

He staggers forward again, reaching toward the shelf like he could pull Sang-woo out of it.

“He’s not lost,” Gi-hun growls. “You’re lying. You’re lying.”

“The man you knew is gone.”

“NO HE ISN’T!” he screams. “He held me. He remembered me. He looked at me and KNEW WHO I WAS. He’s still in there. You’re just too fucking scared to see it.”

The Front Man is silent.

Gi-hun’s strength leaves him in an exhale. He slumps back, pressing his forehead to the wall. Like the cold might anchor him. Like reality might seep into his skull and stop the spin.

“Let me see him again,” he whispers.

No response.

“Let me see him again,” He says it louder this time, barely, but it wobbles at the edges, like a child’s voice before the sob hits.

“That won’t happen.”

Gi-hun lifts his head slowly.

“Not after the way Guard 18 compromised his role." The Front Man continues "I knew it was a mistake putting him near you. He failed.”

It hits harder than the beatings. Harder than the hunger. Harder than the endless, echoing isolation.

His legs give a warning tremor beneath him. He doesn’t want to - God, he doesn’t want to - but his knees fold. And the floor welcomes him again like it’s been waiting.

Shame floods his chest hot and fast. His palms tremble in his lap. His eyes burn - not from grief this time, but from humiliation.

He's on his knees. In front of him.

And he hates it. Hates how small he must look. Hates that he’s made himself this tiny in front of the one who made him break in the first place.

It’s a new kind of pain, quieter, more intimate. The pain of swallowing your own dignity.

The ache of kneeling for someone who would never kneel for you.

“Please.” His voice is barely audible. Gi-hun doesn’t look up. He can’t look up. His head bows lower. “Please. Don’t take him from me again.”

The words feel vile in his mouth.

“You don’t understand,” Gi-hun breathes, trembling. “Everyone else is gone. One after another. And I kept going. I kept fucking going.” His voice falters. “I didn’t stop for anyone. I watched them die and I kept fighting. I-I didn’t even stop when-” He swallows. His jaw clenches. “-when it was him.”

He looks up.

“I tried to make peace with losing him. I really did. And now you tell me he’s alive? Like he’s a secret you shelved like a goddamn file?”

He sags lower, knees burning, voice wrecked.

“Please, I beg you. If you take him again, don’t expect me to crawl out of the wreck a second time.”

The Front Man’s head tilts, a faint calculation behind the stillness. Then he turns.

“You’re decompensating,” he says. “I’ll have a nurse escort you back to your room.”

Gi-hun jerks forward like the words were a slap.

“No-” His voice breaks. “Don’t leave. Not yet. Please.”

The footsteps stop.

Gi-hun’s still kneeling, pressed into the cold floor. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say next, but he knows if he stays silent, the door will shut, and when it shuts, he’ll never see him again.

“I can… give you something.”

The mask doesn’t turn, but he feels the Front Man listening.

Gi-hun sucks in a breath through his teeth.  “Take it. Take all of it, I don’t-” His voice cracks. “I don’t care anymore. You want silence? Fine. I won’t speak. Not a word.”

His hands tremble.

“You want suffering? I’ll starve. I’ll-I’ll sleep in that fucking cage like an animal. I’ll let the Guards spit on me, kick me, whatever you want.”

His eyes are glassy now, words tumbling out in a fevered rush. “You can - hell, you can sew my mouth shut, and I’ll-” He chokes on it. “I’ll thank you.”

No answer. Just watching, waiting.

He speaks faster now. Chasing some version of himself he hasn't lost yet.

“I’ll stay in the cell. Forever. I won’t ask questions. I won’t talk to the Guards. I’ll never say his name again. Just… give me that. Give me one thing. Let me see him. Just for ten minutes. That’s all. Ten minutes.”

Still nothing.

His voice goes smaller, quieter, scraped thin from overuse.

“Please. He’s all I have left.”

And that’s when he finally hears the voice.

“You think you’re offering something.”

Gi-hun’s spine prickles.

“But you’ve already given me everything. Except the one thing that matters.”

His stomach knots. He doesn’t speak.

The Front Man takes a step forward.

“Pain. Silence. Obedience. That’s residue. That’s waste. I’ve let you keep the one part of yourself that still matters.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, slowly. His breath comes too fast.

“No. No, don’t say that. Don’t make me say it. Please.”

He sways, and for a moment it looks like he might fall forward, but he catches himself. Barely.

“Say it,” the Front Man says.

Gi-hun clamps his hands over his ears.

“I can be useful. I was good at the task you gave me. I-I followed the Yut Nori Game, I spoke cleanly, I sounded like one of you. I can still be a Guard. I can still be…something else. Something that isn’t-”

He can't finish.

“You said I’m still between." Gi-hun tries again. "I get that. I’m not a Player anymore. But I don’t have to be-” His voice hitches. “Not that. Not the mask. Not beside you. I’m not - I’m not you.”

The mask tilts.

“You are,” the Front Man says softly.

“No.” Gi-hun’s hands drop. He looks up.

His face is ruined - wet, red, twitching with the shame of someone caught becoming what he hates.

“I know what you want. I know why you kept me alive. Not to watch me starve. To wait for this. This exact moment. You want my yes.”

He laughs, but it sounds like choking.

“You want the moment I stop pretending I’m not like you.”

“Yes.”

The word is so simple.

Gi-hun’s whole body trembles. “And if I say it…”

He trails off. Because he knows.

He sees it now.

He thinks of the dead. All of them.

You promised them, he reminds himself. You swore to tear this place apart with your bare hands. You told ghosts that their deaths would mean something, that you’d never, never become the monster that did this to them.

But monsters don’t fall all at once. They fall in increments. Quiet permissions. Small negotiations. They fall in silences.

He can still say no. He can still walk away. He can choose to die on the right side of the line.

Except-

Sang-woo is alive.

He’ll see him again. He’ll hear him speak. He’ll watch his face as it turns, hear his name from his lips. Maybe he’ll even smile. Maybe, for a second, he’ll be eighteen again and Sang-woo will be looking at him like he matters.

And for that, Gi-hun realizes, he would destroy the entire world.

He hates himself for it. It makes him want to rip the skin off his own face. But it’s the truth.

He is selfish.

He is so fucking selfish.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, trying to think of a better option. Another path. Another way. There has to be one. There must be some reality in which he holds on to his integrity and his hope and his hatred of all this - but still gets to see Sang-woo again.

But that reality is dead. It died when he opened the medical file and felt his knees give out.

And now here he is. Kneeling in the ruins of his own morals, mouth dry, hands trembling, the last sliver of purity caught in his throat like a prayer he no longer believes in.

“You should reflect,” the Front Man says softly. “You're medicated. Your mind is altered. Pain clouds judgment.”

Gi-hun’s voice cuts through like a snapped wire.

“I’ve never thought clearer.”

And he means it. Horribly, damningly, irrevocably - he means it. What could be more honest than choosing the devil with your eyes wide open?

The Front Man tilts his head, as if trying to glimpse the soul that used to live in Gi-hun’s body. Whatever he sees, he keeps to himself.

Gi-hun breathes hard. He’s shaking now. The silence is unbearable.

“Don’t make me say it out loud,” he whispers. “Please.”

Still no answer.

“I’m not like you. I’m not. Even if I say it. Even if I do this. It’s not because I want it. I’m not agreeing. I’m not giving in. I’m just-”

Just desperate? Just devoted? Just evil in better lighting?

No.

No.

No, don’t name it. Don’t look at it directly. Because if you do, if you speak it aloud, if you give it shape, then you’ll never unsee it.

But it’s too late.

He’s seduced.

Yes, that’s it. He is seduced by the quiet pull of significance, by offer of meaning. The Front Man is offering gravity. Purpose. A name carved into the machine instead of erased by it. A place where Gi-hun could matter - not as a man, but as an idea, a force, a necessary weight in a world that only respects power.

And hasn’t that always been his sickness?

He begged for a reason to say yes, and the Front Man gave him one. Gave him Sang-woo - alive, broken, breathing. And beneath that, something worse.

He offered him the chair, empty, waiting. A promise of command, a place where orders are spoken, not obeyed. And he gave him the Yut Nori game, handed him the rules, watched him speak and be listened to. Watched the room fall silent when he raised his voice. Watched him lead. Watched him belong. He gave him a reflection of what he could become, and it wasn’t horrifying.

It was glorious.

And that’s what he is most afraid of: that once he puts on the mask, it will fit too well. That once he sits in the chair, his back will straighten. That once the cameras tilt and the walls hush and the world waits for his voice, he will not flinch.

He will become the thing he vowed to kill, and he will not weep for it.

He’s afraid that the only thing stopping him all this time was lack of invitation.

Because power, real power - the kind that rewrites laws and swallows names and makes gods of men - is a terrible and holy thing. It speaks to the child inside him that always wanted to matter. It speaks to the survivor who made it to the end of the Games and found nothing there. It speaks to the part of him that has been hungry his whole life, and for once, the table is full.

He hates that he craves it.

But he craves it.

And if Sang-woo had never lived, if that file had never landed in his hands, would he still be here?

Yes.

Yes, he would. Sooner or later.

Because the truth is filthier than love. The truth is that Sang-woo is the final excuse, not the first cause. The truth is that Sang-woo gave him the permission he needed to take what he already wanted.

He wants the mask.

He wants the silence.

He wants the fear.

He wants to be the room people go still in.

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

No. No, this isn’t surrender. This isn’t the end of him. It’s the middle of something.

This is strategy.

This is survival.

This is the only way.

He’ll wear the mask. Yes. Of course he will. He’ll wear it like a noose spun into a crown. He’ll let the Front Man teach him his scriptures, his architecture of obedience, his holy language of death - and he will smile as he learns. Not because he believes. But because he’s waiting for the moment to unmake it all.

He’ll walk beside the devil. He’ll dine with him. Sleep under the same roof. Let his shadow stretch over him. Let his voice become a lullaby.

He’ll let it happen.

But only so he can end it.

Right?

That’s the plan. Isn’t it?

Say yes to survive. Say yes to destroy. Say yes to gather the blueprint, to find the cracks, to plant the charge. Smile like a disciple, kill like a heretic.

Let them lower their heads when he speaks. Let the gold settle in his bones. Let the blood feel warm for once. And when they trust him - when they bow - he’ll carve the whole temple down.

That’s still resistance. Isn’t it?

He tells himself it is.

That he can lie down in the serpent’s den and still wake up human. That he can speak with the devil’s voice and still sing with the rebel’s soul. That he can become the mask to destroy the mask. That he can taste the power without swallowing it whole.

He can sit in the chair. Even if his knees buckle.

He can take the mask. Even if his hands shake.

He can become the system’s favorite child - just long enough to slit its throat while it sleeps.

He can. He will.

And if no one sees the difference - if the ghosts of those he loved look at him with horror, unable to distinguish the mask from the man - then he will carry that, too.

Gi-hun lifts his chin, barely - just enough to meet the mask again, just enough to become the version of himself that can do this.

“The meetings,” he murmurs. “Where would they take place?”

“In these quarters. Always.” The Front Man answers as if it’s already been decided, as if the path has always led here.

“No,” Gi-hun hisses. “This place is a cage of cameras. There’s no privacy. You want to watch every second.”

The silence that answers him is worse than any reply.

“Unsupervised.” Gi-hun tries again. “Let me have that.”

“No.”

Gi-hun lets out a slow breath - part sigh, part surrender. He closes his eyes for the briefest second. He nods once to himself, resigned.

“All right,” he murmurs. "Fine”

Gi-hun pushes one trembling palm against the ground and rises from the floor. It takes everything in him. The IV line tugs against the motion, and a thin ribbon of blood blossoms beneath the tape. It slides down his arm in a lazy arc. He doesn’t wipe it.

He approaches the Front Man slowly. But before he reaches for the handshake, before he says the words that will lock the door behind him forever, his voice breaks the silence one last time.

“One more condition,” he says.

The Front Man stills.

Gi-hun’s throat tightens around the words. There’s still one more piece left to play.

“Jun-hee’s baby.” A pause. His voice cracks. “Don’t put him in the system. Don’t let him disappear into some anonymous foster family and vanish like the rest of us. He has someone. Hyun-ju. She made Jun-hee a promise.”

He forces himself to meet the mask again. He’s never been more tired.

“Let her keep him. Let her raise him.”

The Front Man considers. The room feels like it’s leaning in. And then, quietly, finally:

“Deal.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes. There’s nothing left to bargain with. No cards, no angles. This was the last.

He lifts his hand, slowly.

“Yes,” he says, barely a sound.

The Front Man doesn't respond.

So Gi-hun says it again. Louder. Like he's giving it shape.

“Yes.”

As their hands meet, as flesh touches glove, something in him dies. Some fragile last remnant of decency, of purity, of belief that this could end any other way.

All that remains is the fire. And it speaks with his voice.

I will burn this place from its foundation to the final brick. Even if I have to wear its colors to do it. Even if I sit beside the devil, smiling while I draw the blade. I will burn it. I will burn it. I will burn it.

And if I forget that, if I ever come to love the chair, the mask, the silence-

Then I never was Seong Gi-hun at all.

 

 

 

The doctor told him he should lie down.

She told him it would be easier that way, that the IV would hold better, that the pain in his ribs wouldn’t spike if he just lay back and let the machines take over. And that this was a place to rest, to heal, to belong.

But he can’t lie down. He can’t even let his body pretend.

How the fuck do you lie down in a room that has stopped being a cell and started calling itself a bedroom? How do you rest when the bed itself feels like a coffin with fresh sheets? When you know that surrender is what got you here, and survival is its own kind of guilt?

He sits up, staring at the ceiling, then the IV bag, then the brown covers of the bed, the dull wardrobe, the light from the bathroom door cracked just enough to let the shadows spill out.

He counts the saline drops, one by one, as if they are a countdown to something he still doesn’t believe he’s earned.

And now he waits. In the room that is not a cell. For the man who is not a ghost.

The lights are low. Intentionally so. They want him to feel safe. Somewhere, he knows, a camera is watching. Probably more than one. Maybe the walls listen, too.

But he doesn’t care.

He just wants to see him.

He just wants - oh God, he just wants.

Earlier - what feels like a century ago but is only hours - he said to the Front Man “Tomorrow. Let me see him tomorrow.”

 The Front Man had stared. “When you’re stabilized.”

"I am stabilized,” Gi-hun insisted. “Tomorrow.”

A pause, a calculation and finally a nod. “Tomorrow, then.”

Now, it’s tomorrow. And he’s not relaxed. Not for a second. His body is rigid, every muscle braced for disappointment. For the door not to open. For the universe to laugh at him again.

But then it does.

The handle turns. The door opens.

A shape fills the frame. Pink. Tall. A Guard.

No - the Guard. The one. The only one. His Guard.

18.

218.

Sang-woo.

Gi-hun sits up straighter, the bed groaning, the IV tugging at his arm. His hand flies to his chest - a white-hot pain, fluid still lurking in his lung, but he barely feels it. Not when his vision goes watery, not when every cell in his body is electric.

The Guard stands in the doorway, hesitation painted all over his posture. Like he’s waiting for permission to step inside.

Gi-hun laughs, tears in his eyes, wild with relief.

“Sang-woo,” he says.

The Guard flinches. His head snaps up - reflexive, automatic, the same way he had jerked when Gi-hun had screamed his name, while he was bleeding.

“It’s okay,” Gi-hun whispers, softer now. “Sang-woo, I’m okay. You can come in.”

The Guard steps inside, the door clicking behind him.

Gi-hun pushes himself to his feet, every step a risk, every breath a new negotiation with agony. The Guard steps forward, just one step, concern flickering in his body language, the circle of his mask unreadable and impossibly familiar. Gi-hun lets out another helpless laugh. 

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a lung. I have another one, right?”

He can’t help but wonder what Sang-woo is thinking. Seeing him like this, reduced, hospital-thin, plastic tubing in his arm, pale in a way he’s never been. Knowing he was the one who did this.

Gi-hun stops, just out of reach. 

“You can take the mask off,” he says. “If you want. You can take it off, Sang-woo.”

The Guard freezes. The mask tilts, just a fraction. Fear radiates from every line of his body.

“Why are you so afraid?” Gi-hun whispers, heartbreak blooming in every syllable. “It’s just me. It’s me, Sang-woo. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He can see it now, the weight in Sang-woo’s shoulders, the invisible shroud of guilt - maybe for becoming a Guard, maybe for obeying orders, maybe for that day on the roof, the day he betrayed him and then raised his fists and didn’t stop until Gi-hun was a smear on the floor. Or maybe just for living when others didn’t. 

“It’s alright,” Gi-hun promises. “Let me help. Can I do it? Can I help?”

He waits, heart in his throat, for permission. For something like absolution.

The Guard nods, slow, almost imperceptible.

First, the pink hood. Gi-hun reaches up, hands trembling, unsure if he’s awake, unsure if any of this is real. The fabric is soft. He peels it back, careful, like undressing a wound.

Then the mask. Gi-hun cups it with both hands. The cold shocks his skin. He leaves them there, feeling the tremor in his fingers, the heat of his palms against plastic. 

Slowly, he lifts it.

There’s still one layer – a thin black cloth covering the face beneath, a veil of anonymity. But he sees them now - the eyes - and the mess of black hair falling over them.

He reaches again and removes the last barrier.

And Sang-woo is there.

Older - God, yes. Older in the way haunted places age, the way abandoned houses collect dust behind their doors. Lines where there were once only soft shadows, new geometry carved by sleeplessness and regret. The weary architecture of guilt etched across every angle, each memory a stone set in the cathedral of his face. But it’s him. Exactly, terribly, miraculously him.

Gi-hun’s knees threaten to give out. For a moment he wonders if the drugs in his veins have finally won - if this is the terminal hallucination, the last cruel trick.

“Am I dreaming?” he whispers.

He stumbles forward. He has to touch him. Has to know that what he’s seeing is tactile, cellular, warm. That death has reversed itself just this once, like some god got bored and rewound the tape.

He is cupping Sang-woo’s face with both his hands before he’s even aware.

“You’re here,” he whispers, choked and trembling. “You’re alive. You’re real. You’re-”

He breaks.

He collapses into Sang-woo with all the grace of a man in freefall, arms clutching him desperately, like he’s afraid someone will come and take him back to the grave he crawled out of. Their chests press together.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” Gi-hun sobs, over and over again, as if the repetition could rewrite time itself. As if saying it enough might unmake the years, undo the blood, rebuild the boy he once knew.

Slowly, Sang-woo’s arms close around him, uncertain at first, then with a gravity that feels like surrender.

When Gi-hun finally dares to look up, tears smudging the lines of his face, he finds Sang-woo staring at him. Eyes shining. Lips trembling. And then-

“I’m sorry,” Sang-woo whispers.

Gi-hun doesn’t know what for. For the beating? For the betrayal? For the silence?  For the years spent alive and hidden, saying nothing?

Or maybe-

Maybe for that day, four years ago. For the mud beneath their knees. For the blade in his hand. For the way he’d been willing - so willing - to kill him for money. To carve open the one person who still believed in him, just to get out.

It doesn’t matter.

Gi-hun nods, the breath catching in his throat like a sob he won’t release.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He wonders - does Sang-woo know what he did? What Gi-hun gave away? The price he paid to have this one moment, just this? Does he hate him for it? Does he think him weak?

Or… was Sang-woo always part of this machine, always turning with it, and Gi-hun was just the one exception he couldn’t turn away from?

He doesn’t know. He may never know. 

Gi-hun brushes a thumb down Sang-woo’s face, as if touch can sanctify what memory cannot. He leans in, their foreheads pressed together, and breathes him in.

Then, his fingers wander down the jaw, where a new scar glistens pale and brutal on the left, the place where a blade and a desperate action almost ended him for good. He traces it, frantic, unsteady, then lower still -fingers ghosting across the column of the throat, searching for another raised scar, this one round and surgical.

“Let me see,” Gi-hun murmurs.

Sang-woo says nothing, but allows it.

Gi-hun finds the zipper, tugs it carefully down, hands shaking so badly it’s a miracle he doesn’t tear the fabric. The collar opens - and there it is. The tracheostomy scar - faint, pinkish - a wound turned anchor, the cruel, ordinary mark of resurrection. Another proof that miracles always arrive ugly.

“Oh,” Gi-hun whispers, voice breaking apart for good. “Oh, Sang-woo.”

He touches it. Gently, worshipfully, as if every part of him is apologizing for not saving him, for not dying in his place.

But then Sang-woo’s left hand slides over his, strong and soft, pressing his palm down - enough, that touch says. Enough, hyung. You’re here. I’m here.

Their foreheads meet again, desperate for fusion.

And in that stillness, in that impossible reunion, the war pauses. Just for a moment.

Just long enough for two men to remember they were once boys who loved each other.

 

Notes:

End of Part One, y’all!! I hope it felt at least a little like a happy ending amidst all the angst (emphasis on a little - I know what I wrote).

Thank you so much for embarking on this journey with me. I still cannot believe how much this fic grew. Like. Truly. What started as a little idea is now this sprawling, 16k word finale monster, and I’m so grateful you stuck around for it.

Also, I have another announcement to make, folks. Remember when I mentioned "pre-exam weeks" back in the opening notes (yes. yes, you know what's coming)... Well. Since I clearly have zero self-control when it comes to writing, and I also want to pass my classes and preserve at least 3 of my brain cells, I’ve decided to officially go on hiatus from this fic until my exam season ends on July 14. I know, it’s a lot of time. But also: not my fault that where I live, classes and exams refuse to end at a reasonable date.

However! Let’s look on the bright side. Season 3 is coming June 27th!!
(Yes. I also screamed. I’ve waited so long and now it’s just....less than a month away? HOW???)

So here's the plan: I will be watching it slowly, in between exams and mental breakdowns. You too, okay? Then we can all discuss it together, scream, cry, and feed this fic with even more theories and inspiration. And yes, we will mourn the moment I officially have to add the “Canon Divergence” tag. (RIP, dream of staying canon-compliant. You were beautiful while you lasted.)

 

Anyway. I love you all. Thank you for reading, for sticking around, for commenting, for everything. I’ll be lurking around and probably rereading your comments instead of studying, so don’t hesitate to leave any thoughts behind.

 

See you on the other side of July <333

Chapter 11: Intermezzo, Part I

Notes:

Hello, dear readers!!

Yes, it’s really me! I know, I know - it’s been literal ages, whole civilizations have risen and fallen, the sun has set on a thousand empires, and somehow in all that time, I still hadn’t posted a new chapter. But behold! Against all odds, I have returned!!

First off: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for every comment, every wild theory, every soft “good luck” or “take your time <3” message that kept me tethered to this mortal plane during exam season.

But now? Guess what. I’m FREE! No more exams! No more crying in the library bathroom! I am once again a person with hobbies, dreams, regrets (mostly about my word count), and a burning need to get this story out of my head and into your eyeballs. HOORAY!!

So, about this Chapter. You may be thinking, “Author, why did it take so long? Are you okay?” And to that I say: No. I am not okay. Because this chapter mutated into something horrifyingly large while I wasn’t looking. I thought it would be, like, 8k? Maybe 10k if I indulged. NOPE. It is 27k. That is not a typo. Twenty-seven. Thousand. Words. (And growing, because apparently I have no self-control.) In fact, it got so ridiculous that I had to split it. SPLIT IT. I resisted, I cried, I raged, but in the end, I decided not to subject you to scrolling for three hours straight in a single chapter. I did this for you. Out of love. Or cowardice. Or both.

Also - brace yourselves. This Chapter (and the next) are not what you’re expecting. Not even close. It’s not the long-awaited Part 2 of the fic. It’s… well, let’s call it an Intermezzo (I got fancy with the title and everything). Think of it as a… pause, but one full of heavy emotions, character thoughts, yearning, and plenty of things you might want to scream into a pillow about. (You’ll see what I mean. I’m bracing for impact when the comments roll in.)

And oh my god, SEASON 3!! Can we talk about it? (No spoilers, but also - how are we all coping? Because I am not. Almost a month since it aired and I am STILL in mourning. How dare they.)

Okay, enough rambling from me. You’ve been waiting long enough, so I won’t keep you any longer. I really, really hope you enjoy this one.

Now… onto Intermezzo.

It’s still raining.

How absurd, he thinks - half-thinks, really, because thought is a distant thing now, fogged and slipping away like light beneath water. Still, it comes: the rain. Pressing down. Crawling over his skin like fingers. Clinging to his lashes, seeping through the cracks of his closed eyelids like it’s trying to keep him awake a little longer.

Somewhere, far too close, Gi-hun is screaming.

His name. His name, again and again.

Sang-woo doesn’t know what he expected - silence, maybe. Or disgust. But not this. Not Gi-hun’s voice cracking. Not the sound of someone coming undone for him.

He wants to laugh. He really does. But his throat is too full of blood to manage it.

What a fool, he tries to think, but even that comes without sharpness. Gi-hun, the fool. Crying over him like this. As if he hadn’t seen what Sang-woo did. As if he hadn’t watched him become something unspeakable.

“You idiot,” Sang-woo would say, if he could - but the words catch somewhere deep in his throat, swallowed by the warmth spilling steadily from the wound at his neck. Maybe he says it anyway, a whisper drowned in blood and rain, inaudible even to himself. "You beautiful idiot."

His hands tremble once, then fall still in the mud.

His body grows heavier, blood slipping away, but the rain remains - along with Gi-hun’s voice and the dull ache of regret blooming too late.

It’s strange, the things you notice when you’re dying. Like how the sky smells like metal. Or how the dirt beneath your back is warm from the storm. Or how someone - someone with blood on their hands - can still miss things. Still want things.

Like a different ending.

Gi-hun’s hands are on him, shaking him, holding him together like he still believes that matters. And Sang-woo, for a moment, lets himself feel it. The desperation. The closeness. The awful tenderness of being mourned.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he’s so tired of fighting the softness in himself. So tired of pretending he doesn’t want to stay. For Gi-hun. For that one look on Gi-hun’s face - devastated, yes, but still full of something that feels horribly, impossibly like love.

The idiot. Mourning a man like him.

He tries to move his fingers, just once - to reach, to hold, to speak. But his body won’t answer, and the silence swallows everything.

So he lets the rain speak for him. Lets it blur the blood and the tears. Lets it wash over the both of them, quiet now, except for the sound of a man breaking over a body that no longer knows how to stay.

And if this is the last thing Sang-woo ever feels - Gi-hun’s touch, quiet and trembling against his skin - then maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s what dying with a heart feels like. If he ever had one.

 

 

Where’s the rain?

It was there, wasn’t it? Cold, constant, honest. He remembers the way it clung to him. He remembers surrendering to it. The softness of dying. The stillness. The choice.

But this isn’t that.

This is white. The kind of white that burns. Sterile light overhead. A rhythm beneath it, mechanical, constant. A beeping.

He doesn’t like the beeping. It counts things. Things that should have stopped.

Something’s on his face. No, in his face. Down his throat - a tube in his nose. A wire in his arm. Something in his groin. A catheter, he realizes numbly. His legs feel distant, unreachable. His tongue heavy, unfamiliar.

And there’s something else at his neck.

His hands reach upward on instinct, shaky and unwilling, finding something rigid and plastic beneath his fingers, foreign, wrong. He presses harder, desperate to understand. His nails dig into the edge-

“You shouldn’t touch that.”

A voice. Distorted, but unmistakably female.

He turns his head slowly, his vision smearing, and sees her. 

Pink.

The color is absurdly bright against the white walls. It’s wrong here, like a scream in a library, a flaw in an equation. A jumpsuit, vivid and harsh. And a mask, smooth and blank, bearing a simple, white circle where a face should be.

He stares at it, lost, uncomprehending. It means something. It should mean something.

That circle. That symbol. Where has he seen it?

Why does it feel like-

“You’re disoriented,” the woman says, voice filtered but oddly gentle. “That’s normal. You’ve been unconscious for five days. We performed an emergency tracheostomy to bypass the damage to your upper airway. You’d lost a dangerous volume of blood.”

Tracheostomy. He knows the term. He’s not a doctor, but he reads. He learns. It’s a last resort, a procedure you only perform when someone is dying.

So that’s what happened.

He died. Or came close enough.

And they didn’t let him.

His hand moves again, fingers trembling as they edge toward the plastic device in his neck, as though he can deny reality by touch alone. The woman sees him reaching again and gently places her gloved hand on his wrist.

“The procedure caused swelling around your vocal cords,” she continues quietly. “You won’t be able to speak properly just yet. Your voice will return in a few days, once the inflammation subsides.”

He wants to ask why. Why him? Why did they bring him back? Why put tubes in his body and wires beneath his skin and drag him forcibly from the peace he'd finally found?

The shape of the circle is still staring at him. And now that he’s looking - really looking - he sees the others. More pink suits, moving behind the glass that separates his room from the hallway, gliding in and out of view like dancers in a play he can only watch. Silent, efficient, always just out of reach.

It’s not just out of place.

It’s wrong.

The shape, the jumpsuits, the masks - he knows them.

Not from this life. From the other one. The one with numbers instead of names. The one with screams instead of rules.

A surge of fury and memory burns behind his eyes, and he blinks hard, refusing to let them see him break.

“You were in the Final Game,” the woman continues. “Player 456 was with you. You-“ she pauses, as if unsure how to say it delicately, “-you turned the knife on yourself. A deep, lateral incision to the neck. Just missing the carotid artery but severing enough vessels to nearly bleed out. We intervened in time.”

Her voice drones like static, but that number - 456 - lands hard.

He frowns and tries to make sense of it.

A number. A Player. A man. Then-

Gi-hun.

Gi-hun is 456.

And then it all comes back. The rain, yes. But also the blood, the mud, the knife, the screams - Gi-hun’s screams.

His name on Gi-hun’s lips.

The grief in his eyes. The way his hands shook. The way it felt to die in his arms.

And yet - he’s here. Alive.

They brought him back.

His hand lifts again, more instinct than thought, and this time it doesn’t stop at the plastic protrusion at his throat. It travels further, to the side of his neck. Slowly, like he’s afraid of what’s waiting there.

Fingertips brush bandages. Thick, layered, anchored with surgical tape. There’s pressure beneath them - deep, tender, like something only just stitched shut.

That’s where he did it. That’s where the knife went in.

“You’re safe here,” the woman says, as if those words could mean anything to him. “We’ll be evaluating you over the next few days - a neurological exam this afternoon, and later, a psychiatric assessment. For now, just rest. You’re not alone. You’re supported. We’re here to help.”

Supported. Safe. Words that flutter and die in the air.

Where was “support” when they put masks on people and numbered the dead?

Where was “safe” when blood dried between his fingers and he chose to become a monster to survive?

He gives her a thin, cruel smile - his only weapon now, a slice of sarcasm in a mouth too weak for speech. If she notices, she ignores it. She just checks the tubes - tubes in his veins, tubes down his nose, tubes everywhere - her hands gentle, careful, as if she’s tending a rare animal in a zoo.

“You have a nasogastric tube for now,” she continues softly, smoothing the tape along his cheek. “We only started using it today. Before, you were fed by IV. Your body is still catching up. Once you’re stable, we’ll try oral sips. We want to be sure your swallowing is safe.”

He stares at her. All this care. All this concern. A team to keep him alive, to clean his wounds, to wash the blood from under his nails. To ask him, no doubt, if he regrets. If he is sad.

He imagines their questions.

Are you sorry, Mr. Cho?

Do you wish you’d chosen differently?

Do you want to hurt yourself again?

He almost laughs.

They killed hundreds of people here.

Now they want to talk about “support.”

He wonders if they will help him remember each face. Each name. If their “psychiatrist” will want him to count them, to grieve them, to offer a statement for the record.

The woman must see something shift in his eyes. She gives him another gentle nod, says something about checking on him later, and leaves. The door hisses shut.

He is alone. The beeping goes on.

He closes his eyes and lets the tears burn hot down his face.

 

 

The days blend into each other. Time is measured not in hours, but in interruptions: hands tugging at him, turning him, poking veins, checking pupils, changing dressings. The humiliation of being handled, exposed, scrubbed clean by strangers who speak in gentle voices and pretend not to notice the shame on his face.

He notes the color of bruises, the number of tubes, the way they track his urine, his heart, his breath. The numbers pile up - data without meaning, except that he is still here.

One morning, something changes.

He wakes to find the NG tube gone from his nose, replaced by a plastic cup and a nurse with practiced hands. She raises the straw to his lips, but Sang-woo, ever proud, insists on taking it himself. His fingers tremble. The straw wobbles. He tries, fails, coughs - a ragged, undignified sound.

The nurse reassures him, voice syrupy, unfazed by his glare. “Take your time, Mr. Cho. You’re doing well.”

He hates this. Hates the weakness, the dependency, the way even a sip of water becomes a mountain to climb. There was a time when challenges bent to his will, when nothing seemed beyond his reach. Now he chokes on water and feels smaller than he has ever been.

Still, he persists. The next time, his hands are steadier. The water goes down. The nurse offers a smile, hidden behind the mask, but he doesn’t return.

By the end of the day, they bring him a shallow dish of puréed food - lukewarm and gray, tasting of nothing. But he feeds himself, slowly, stubbornly, bite by bite, refusing assistance even when it drips down his chin. He finishes the tray. It's not a triumph, but it's something.

Over the next few days, the texture of food evolves - mashed, then soft solids, then full meals. Each step is monitored, charted, whispered about just outside the door. He pretends not to hear. He does. He records everything.

When his voice finally returns, it is thin, unsteady, but his. He asks for Gi-hun.

They do not answer, except to say, “He won the Games.”

That doesn’t mean he’s alright, Sang-woo thinks bitterly. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

 

The psychiatrist visits are quiet, too bright, and full of careful questions. A woman with a calm voice sits beside his bed and asks if he’s sleeping, if he’s eating, if he wants to talk. She tiptoes around the word suicide, wraps it in clinical terms like ideation and impulse control. He listens to her like she’s describing weather in a city he’s never been to.

He answers what he must. Silence, when it suits him. Polished lies, when it doesn’t. He watches her scribble into her little notebook and imagines what she’s writing. Patient remains guarded. Signs of internalized guilt. Potential for recovery.

She’s not wrong. She’s just too late.

By the time they start asking how to save him, the part that wanted saving is already gone.

 

 

The day they remove the tracheostomy tube, he sits as tall as his body allows, jaw clenched, throat aching.

The doctor is kind, efficient. “You’re healing well,” she says. “We’ll remove the cannula now.”

He doesn’t respond. The sensation is strange: a slow pressure, a twist, and then a sudden, weightless emptiness. Air moves through his throat, unassisted, unmediated for the first time in weeks - yet every breath feels strange, borrowed, as if he’s inhaling through someone else’s mouth.

Later, he touches his neck and feels two scars.

The first, thin and angled, the one he made with his own hand - a final statement.

The second, round and neat, carved by surgeons in a room of burning white, a hole punched into his body to keep him from dying.

They live side by side on his skin: the scar he authored, and the one he was given.

He reads them with his fingertips, as if they might speak:

One whispering, Let me go.

The other insisting, You will not.

And so he endures. Cell by cell. Sip by trembling sip. Breath by unwilling breath.

But what rises from the wreckage is not the man he used to be.

What remains is a shape carved by desperation, stitched together by strangers, and left to haunt the world he tried to leave behind.

 

 

He’s learned not to react to the hiss of the door.

Every day, it slides open and another doctor or nurse enters. Hands that touch without malice. Voices that ask the same questions. The routine has eroded meaning. He exists in a white room, suspended in something that isn't quite life.

So when the door opens again, and the air changes - really changes - he notices.

It’s quieter than usual. Colder.

Then, from his bed, he sees it: a man dressed entirely in black, gliding in like a shadow. His mask is nothing like the pink Guards'. It’s black, faceted like a gemstone, angular and sharp, hiding everything and reflecting nothing.

The room reacts before Sang-woo can. The nurses falter, uneasy. The head doctor - his favorite, the one who speaks to him as if his answers matter - freezes. She exchanges a glance with the masked man, something complicated flickering beneath the surface. His gloved hand comes to rest on her shoulder, not a threat but an order all the same. She gives a tiny nod and gathers the others, ushering them out in silence.

He watches the line of pink vanish behind the glass wall, leaving him with this stranger and the hush that follows him.

And then, he sees it.

Another man watches him, standing behind the glass. A figure in a suit, utterly still, the light catching on a gold mask: an Owl’s face, intricate and inhuman, eyes wide and empty, beak curved and cruel. The gold shines but the sockets are so dark they seem bottomless, hungry. 

A predator, Sang-woo thinks, the hairs on his arms prickling. He looks away, shuddering. He tells himself it’s the morphine, but he knows better. No drug conjures that kind of fear.

His eyes return to the man in black. Rage starts to pulse low in his stomach.

Still, he says nothing. He will not be the one to break the silence. He will not offer them that. Not after everything. 

Go on, he dares with his eyes. Say something. Say whatever this is. I want to hear you explain why I’m not dead.

Finally, the black-masked man speaks. His voice is low, almost thoughtful, and so respectful it feels like mockery.

“You’re angry. Good. I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”

Sang-woo glares harder, daring him to keep going, to make it worse.

The man nods slightly, as if acknowledging the challenge. “You wonder why we saved you. Why we spent so much time and money to keep you breathing, to stitch you back together.” He pauses, lets the words hang. “And I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending it was for mercy.”

Silence. The only answer Sang-woo gives is the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes, the fists clenched under the blanket.

The black-masked man shifts slightly, glancing toward the glass where the Owl mask gleams. “Your psychiatric reports are thorough. They say you’re lucid, insightful, but let’s not lie to each other. If I left a knife on your pillow tonight, you’d know exactly what to do with it.” There’s no accusation, only a terrible kind of understanding. “I know you’re not grateful. I wouldn’t be either.”

A pause. Then, almost gently, the masked man steps closer and places a folder on the table beside Sang-woo’s hand.

“But before you decide what your life is worth-” He taps the folder once with two fingers. “-read.”

Sang-woo stares at the folder, as if it might burn him. The silence stretches. For a moment, he wants to shove it off the table, refuse to play any part. But old instincts - curiosity, pride, the cold compulsion to understand - drag his hand forward.

He opens it. The first pages are a language he’s supposed to know - numbers, ratios, capital flows. But they bleed together, meaningless. He blinks, tries to focus. The columns swim.

Then intuition takes over. That old muscle memory of boardrooms, ledgers, sleepless nights. He forces his brain to focus. He reads a line, then another, slower this time. It starts to come together, and what he sees - he has to read again. And again.

 

South Korea - ₩ 2.14 trillion

Japan - ¥230 billion

United Kingdom - £1.23 billion

USA - $3.17 billion

Chile - CLP$1.2 trillion

Brazil - R$8.3 billion

Russia - ₽135 billion

 

He keeps flipping. Every page, every country, every currency - each more impossible than the last. Shell companies. Prize pool deficits. “VIP Class Exposure.” “Collateralized Participant Assets.” “Bribery & Security Fund.” His hand shakes as he tries to count them all.

For a long, suspended moment, Sang-woo is only confusion. He keeps looking back and forth, as if the numbers will change if he reads them again.

He looks up, wide-eyed, at the masked man - then back down. His lips part, but nothing comes out.

Then, as if someone’s poured ice water down his spine, it hits him.

“There are...there are other Games.”

His voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Not just in Korea. This… this isn’t local. This is-” He swallows, lost. “Everywhere.”

He turns another page.

Mexico. Argentina. Spain. Portugal. France. Switzerland. Turkey. Canada. Nigeria. Australia. India.

Each line a debt, a blood price. He can’t even count the zeroes.

He breathes, ragged. “How many people? How many… Players?”

“Thousands, every year. Hundreds of thousands, if you count the decades. The clients expect variety.”

“Why? How? This… this is a multinational enterprise. This is-” Sang-woo breaks off, lost for words. “Why? You’re not just murderers,” he continues, voice cracking. “You’re an empire.”

 

VIP debt obligations, unpaid: $4.8 billion USD

Frozen crypto collateral (unable to liquidate): $220 million USD

Outstanding bribe payments - funds still owed to: Istanbul, Tokyo, São Paulo, London, Moscow, Seoul, Berlin, Lagos…

 

His hands are shaking. He looks up at the masked man, a kind of horrified awe spreading over his face.

“You… you kill hundreds of people, in country after country, and you’re-” He almost chokes on it. “You’re bankrupt?! How…how is that possible?” He shakes his head, lost, almost pleading for reason. “What’s wrong with you? With all of you?”

“Do you know what it costs to keep a secret on six continents, Mr. Cho?” The masked man answers quietly. “To move money that can’t exist? To pay the right people to look away, and the wrong people to disappear? It’s not just the dead who are expensive - it’s the living.”

Sang-woo’s head swims.

“Who do you owe?”

“The VIPs. The ones who pay for the privilege to watch. Investors. The people who bet on you. And us - each other. It’s a network. A syndicate.”

Sang-woo closes the folder, dizzy, as if he’s just looked down from a great height. He lets the silence settle, then looks up with hollow eyes, deadpan:

“Is this… a job interview? You think I can fix this? Why me?” His voice is almost gone. “Why save me? You could’ve found anyone. Some Wall Street prodigy, a Zurich banker, a data scientist from Singapore. Why me?”

The masked man’s voice is steady, almost respectful. “You underestimate yourself, Mr. Cho. We watched you very closely. The Host admired your performance. Everyone did.”

Sang-woo glances, involuntarily, at the man in the golden Owl mask outside the glass. The feeling of being dissected, hunted, crawls over his skin.

“You were never just another contestant. The Host” he nods to the Owl, “took special interest in you. You led your team through Tug of War and made a losing side into victors through sheer logic and ruthlessness. During the Marble Game, you changed the tide with strategy. You sacrificed the one man who trusted you - Player 199.”

Sang-woo shudders. Ali’s name is not spoken, but it’s there, sharp as a blade.

“You rationalized in the Glass Bridge Game. Calculated risks, moved when others froze. You were a finalist, Mr. Cho. The bets were on you to win. And you would have…if not for Player 456.”

Sang-woo stiffens at the mention.

“Gi-hun,” he says, before he can stop himself. The sound is soft, stunned, almost reverent. “His name is Gi-hun,” he says again, more to himself than anyone else.

There’s a brief, almost uncomfortable silence. Through the glass, the golden Owl mask tilts, as if listening closer.

The masked man’s tone is almost wistful. “The Host and I both admired him. Rooted for him, even. But in the end, we never lost sight of you.”

He pauses.

“We had to take… measures to keep you alive after what you did. We didn’t actually expect you to try to kill yourself. If you’d been eliminated in the last Game, the Soldiers were ordered not to shoot you - only to make it look convincing.”

He steps closer, the voice more personal now. “We read your reports from SNU. Your top scores, your business maneuvers, your genius for numbers. Your career, before… everything. You were always meant for more.”

The masked man’s voice drops.

“And the Games proved you understand more than finance. You understand necessity. And frankly-” he allows himself a wry tone, “-you’re cheaper than a Swiss.”

Sang-woo feels hollowed out. The folder in his hands is shaking.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice is sharper now, brittle and clear. “You’re asking me to solve a multi-national bankruptcy for an illegal death cult, because I survived your bloodbath and you liked my numbers?!”

He looks at the mask, then at the Owl behind the glass, then back at the nightmare ledger before him.

Sang-woo’s voice lowers, colder still.

“…You saved me to save yourselves.”

A beat. Then quieter:

“So what is this, exactly? An invitation? A test? Am I being offered a choice, or just the illusion of one?”

The man tilts his head, almost amused. “A real choice, Mr. Cho. You can refuse. We won’t make you do anything. You know, better than most, that consent matters here.”

Sang-woo exhales slowly, nostrils flaring just slightly.

“Then what do I get if I say yes?”

The masked man pauses, studying him with an unnerving calmness.

“A life. Direction. Purpose. A reason to wake up in the morning.”

Sang-woo almost laughs “Purpose?” he echoes, bitter. “You offer me death repackaged as function.”

“No,” the man replies, evenly. “We offer you what no one else will: relevance.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, methodically, the masked man continues:

“Let’s say you walk out of here. What’s waiting for you? A ruined name. A mother who knows what you’ve done, even if she won’t say it out loud. You think you’ll rebuild? You think SNU will take pride in their monster?” A beat. “You’re already wanted. The police are watching every financial leak, every account in your name. Your company? Gone. Your investors? Gone. And even if you run - what’s left? A life in motel rooms, living off cash, always looking behind your shoulder.”

The masked man’s voice dips, low and final:

“Or behind bars, where your genius means nothing. Or…” He trails off, letting the unspoken possibility hang in the air.

Sang-woo’s jaw tightens, fingers twitching subtly against the folder’s edges. He stares back defiantly, silent.

The man leans in. “The Games changed you. You became what society cannot tolerate - a man who adapts too well to impossible circumstances. You stopped pretending. You did what others couldn’t. You lied. You sacrificed. You calculated. You survived.”

Another pause. “You’re not broken, Mr. Cho. You’re evolved.”

Sang-woo swallows hard, quiet rage burning behind his eyes.

"You were made for this,” the masked man continues quietly. “Not for the world outside. Not anymore.”

Sang-woo slowly nods, eyes cold, voice low and lethal:

“…I see.” He looks back at the folder. “Now I understand why I’m cheaper than a Swiss.” He flips a page with deliberate contempt. “They'd at least demand payment. And me? You’re offering ‘purpose.’ A ghost job for a ghost of a man. No contract. No salary.” He looks back up, a bitter, scathing smile on his lips. “I'm not your employee - I’m your unpaid intern in hell.”

The masked man doesn’t reply.

Sang-woo’s voice sharpens. “You expect me to rebuild your empire for what exactly? Loyalty? A twisted sense of achievement?” He laughs darkly, humorless. “Do you genuinely think I'm desperate enough to find dignity in this?”

Another silence settles, oppressive and heavy.

The masked man exhales slowly, as if he'd anticipated every word.

“You can begin again,” he says. “From zero.”

Sang-woo stares at him for a long, silent moment, calculating, searching for some angle, some trick of words that will transform this into a negotiation and not a surrender. But there is nothing left to bargain with - only his pride.

His answer, when it comes, is precise, clipped, without emotion:

“No,” he says. “My answer is no.”

For a moment, he waits for the pitch to continue, the mask to lean in closer, the deal to sweeten. But the man just inclines his head, as if this was always an acceptable outcome.

“Very well,” he says, quietly. “You’re free to go.”

 

 

Three days later, Sang-woo understands what freedom actually means.

He steps into Seoul carrying only what he had worn to the Games: a sleek grey suit that once whispered wealth, now reeking of sweat. Expensive shoes cracked at the soles, dulled by dust and streetwater. A silver watch still ticking uselessly. Ten cigarettes. No wallet. No phone. Just the aching weight of his own body and a throat carved by both a knife and a scalpel.

People stare. Some out of suspicion, some with the careful pity reserved for the obviously ruined. It’s the smell, maybe, or the way he lurches, fever bright in his eyes. Or the wounds - white dressings already yellow at the edges.

Ten cigarettes.

He tries a motel first, but the glowing numbers on the sign might as well have been another language. 80,000 won for the night. He counts the coins in his pockets - he could afford a pack of matches, maybe, not a bed. The clerk behind the glass doesn’t bother raising his eyes.

Nine cigarettes.

He wanders to his old apartment building out of habit. Familiar streets, familiar cracks in the pavement. But as soon as he turns the corner, he sees them - two unmarked sedans, men inside pretending not to watch the entrance. Waiting. Hoping the ghost would come home.

He doesn’t stop walking.

He takes the long way to his mother’s place, staying off main roads. He doesn’t get closer than across the street. There are cops there too - plainclothes, still. But she is there. He sees her silhouette in the window, small, alone. She looks like she’d aged decades.

He can’t let her see him like this. He isn’t sure she could survive it.

Eight cigarettes.

That night, he sits on a park bench near a closed playground. The kind of place he might’ve once taken his own children, if he’d ever had any. He tries to close his eyes, but a security guard spots him within minutes.

“No loitering. Police are patrolling.”

Sang-woo doesn’t argue. He just moves on.

Seven cigarettes.

He tries a subway station next. The heat is a relief, but he’s noticed immediately. The stares turn to suspicion, then to discomfort, then to official voices.

“You can’t stay here.”

They threaten to call the police. He leaves, clutching his watch like a lifeline.

He tries to pawn the watch in Myeongdong. The shop owner looks him over, eyes pausing on the bandages, and shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

Two more shops, same reaction. Doors closed, faces turned away. His desperation is obvious; nobody wants trouble.

Six cigarettes.

Hunger comes in waves - at first a gnawing, then a sickness.

He scours the streets for coins, searching beneath vending machines, near subway turnstiles, beside rusted fences where pocket change might’ve slipped through hands too drunk to notice. When he finally has enough, he buys a single kimbap from a convenience store - the cheapest thing with calories.

He eats it crouched in an alley, shivering, hands trembling around the plastic wrap.

He chews slowly, forcing it down as if his stomach might remember how to keep something.

It doesn’t.

Half an hour later, he’s on his knees behind a trash can, retching bile and rice into the dark.

Even hunger, once so basic, has turned against him.

Five cigarettes.

That night, he sleeps under an overpass. Trucks rumble above. Cold claws through the concrete, through the thin fabric of his once-expensive suit, curling into his spine like it wants to make a home there.

He curls in on himself, arms wrapped tight, pretending it’s enough. Pretending the cold can’t reach his bones. Pretending he’s still human.

A group of drunk college students passes nearby, laughing too loud. One of them sees him, hesitates - then keeps walking.

That’s the worst part.

He isn’t even worth the cruelty.

He lies there for hours, staring at the underside of a bridge, trying to remember the last time he felt warm.

And for the first time in days, he almost weeps. Not from pain or shame. But from the terrifying realization that no one in the world would’ve noticed if he didn’t wake up.

Four cigarettes.  

He wanders the streets aimlessly. Seoul has never felt bigger or colder. People walk faster when they pass him. He catches his reflection in a window once and barely recognizes the thing staring back - a man-shaped shadow in a suit that no longer fits his life.

He passes by restaurants and bakeries and nearly weeps at the smell.

Three cigarettes.

He goes back to his mother’s again. Just to see her. Just to know she’s still safe.

She is.

That has to be enough.

Two cigarettes.

He tries not to think of Gi-hun. For days, he holds that door shut. But in misery, old ghosts are patient, and Gi-hun always knows how to find the cracks.

The thought comes quietly at first - like the memory of warmth in a frozen room.

Gi-hun, with laughter that forgives the world.

Gi-hun, who has loved him like a brother since they were boys and never stopped believing he was worth saving.

Gi-hun, who staggered through hell and somehow kept his hands clean, soul intact, heart ridiculous and brave.

Gi-hun, who had every reason to break and didn’t.

Gi-hun, who has survived that nightmare, not by becoming a monster, but by remembering how to be human.

Unlike Sang-woo.

Gi-hun has always been too good for this world and Sang-woo has spent a lifetime pretending not to want to believe in it. He’s called it naïvety. Weakness. He’s worn cynicism like armor, all the while burning with envy for that soft, stubborn light.

He’s loved him for it, too - silently, fiercely, in all the ways a boy learns to keep secret and a man learns to deny.

Sometimes, he imagines what Gi-hun’s face would look like if he saw him now: haunted, haggard, neck bandaged, reeking of defeat. Maybe Gi-hun would be horrified. Maybe he’d cry. Maybe he’d forgive him with a single look, because that’s what Gi-hun does - he forgives the world, even when the world deserves to burn.

He knows, with sick certainty, that if he reaches out, Gi-hun would give him everything - money, shelter, food. Sang-woo would take it, because he’s weak, and Gi-hun would give it, because he’s kind.

But he can’t do it. Not now. Not ever.

Gi-hun has a mother to hold, a daughter to love, a new life and a second chance. And Sang-woo won’t be the shadow in that light. He won’t be the hand that pulls Gi-hun down, too.

Let Gi-hun believe the dead stay dead.

Let him mourn a friend and not find a ruined stranger instead.

One cigarette.

When he finishes smoking the last one, Sang-woo wanders aimlessly, until he finds himself beneath a bridge with the city roaring above. There’s a homeless man with a pile of blankets and a broken radio. Sang-woo approaches, voice thin and raw.

“Do you have one to spare?”

The man looks him over, takes in the suit, the bandages, the bruises. “What the hell happened to you?”

Sang-woo doesn’t answer. He slips the watch from his wrist and hands it over, wordless.

The man blinks, then trades him a half-empty pack of cigarettes, shaking his head. “You must’ve really fucked up, friend.”

Sang-woo takes the cigarettes, tucks them into his coat, and sits down beside the man on the frozen pavement. The city howls above them.

He lights a cigarette with shaking hands and stares out at the indifferent river.

 

 

He tells himself it's not sentiment that brings him here tonight, not nostalgia nor guilt nor any childish hope of absolution. It is merely a final item on a list, a carefully kept promise he made only to himself.

One look. One final truth to carry into the dark. He has chosen tonight, after all. He has chosen an ending.

Rain glistens along the worn pavement of the marketplace, the light fractured and hazy beneath the yellow glow of old lamps. He prefers it like this, closing hours, the quiet seeped through with water and darkness. Most stalls have shuttered, leaving behind the scent of fish and sea and toil, as if the city itself breathes softly after a long, exhausting day. He despises the usual daytime disruptions, the crowding, the questions, the suspicious glances. Night is kinder, gentler. Night does not ask where you've been.

He sees the police car first and stops short. They might not be here for him, of course. But they might. For him, it is always "might." He knows better than to step openly into view, to let himself be foolishly exposed.

He retreats further into the alley’s embrace, pressing his back into damp bricks, heart thudding unevenly in his chest.

Then he sees her.

His mother stands beneath the lamp, a little hunched. She arranges the last fish in their bags, tying the knots with fingers made slower by years of work. He has seen her from a distance - always distance, these last days - but tonight he lets himself watch. Close enough to see the wisps of hair damp at her brow, the way she mutters to herself as she folds each bag.

He imagines walking over, imagines her hands reaching to touch his face, warm and certain and unquestioning. He imagines lying, just once more:

Eomma, I’m okay. I’ve eaten. I’m warm. I’m not lonely.

Eomma, don’t worry, I’ll do better next time.

All the old lines, a childhood chant.

He knows he can promise nothing tonight, except that by morning he will have already disappeared. He tells himself this will be better for her. A clean grief, simpler than the tangled truth. He stays in the shadow, simply looking. One last stolen intimacy, undeserved but fiercely cherished.

He is on the verge of turning back, of disappearing quietly into the night, when a figure crosses the lamplight, head down, steps slow with exhaustion. Even in silhouette, even before the lamp finds his face, Sang-woo knows him.

No, he thinks. Not him. Please, just this once, let it be someone else.

But fate is greedy tonight.

His mother lifts her head, eyes brightening. “Gi-hun! You're late today. I thought maybe you weren't coming."

Gi-hun’s shoulders dip. He stands in front of her stall, hands deep in his pockets, face half-buried in his hood.

She pulls a plastic bag from the icebox. “I saved you some fish – market was slow today. Here, take it, it’s fresh.”

Gi-hun’s answer is silence. He takes the bag, holds it like it might break.

She studies him, the way only mothers can. “You look thinner than last week,” she murmurs. “You’re not eating properly, are you? And you’re not sleeping. I can tell. I know that look, Gi-hun.”

When she gets no response, she tries again, voice softer.

“I visited your mother today. I brought lilacs. She always loved those, didn’t she? Did you… have you been there? Since the funeral?”

Gi-hun’s hand tightens around the bag. A small shake of his head, eyes averted.

Her eyes drop. She draws a breath, lets it out slowly. “It’s okay,” she says, not unkindly. “Some things take time.”

There’s a moment when it seems like that’s all, but then her voice lifts again, tentative.

“I’m sorry. I should have called. She was always so worried about you. Always telling me to check, to send you home with something. She loved you so much, Gi-hun.”

She lets her hand rest on his shoulder.

“And your daughter… she’s leaving soon, isn’t she?” She sighs, a thin, breaking sound. “It’s difficult, being alone... But we manage, eh? Somehow we manage.”

Sang-woo flinches in the dark, a pulse of guilt so sharp he almost cries out.

She straightens, forces cheer into her voice. “But you - you’re not alone, Gi-hun, You promise you’ll come by again, alright? Even if just to say you're okay. I’ll save something for you to eat, like always. Just…take care of yourself, will you?”

Gi-hun’s shoulders tremble slightly, his back bowed with unseen weight. He finally moves, turns slowly away from the stall, gripping the bag tightly.

Sang-woo holds his breath as Gi-hun drifts nearer. He passes so close Sang-woo can count the droplets clinging to his hair, see the water clinging to his lashes.

He looks tired. Older in a way that has nothing to do with time. Nothing like the man Sang-woo imagined would emerge from the Games, prize in hand and future waiting.

He remembers the moment - how he’d lain bloodied on the sand, breath rattling in his throat, and thought: At least one of us. One of them would survive. Not just in body, but intact. One would go home to dinners and doorways and laughter, to the warmth of ordinary love. One of them would be saved.

But the man in front of him isn’t a victor. He is the ruin that survived.

No mother left to scold him gently. No daughter within reach to call him back to the world.

And Sang-woo, who thought sacrifice would mean something, had vanished into darkness so Gi-hun could find his way back into the light. So his mother would have her son for a few more years. So a little girl would have someone left to call “Appa.”

He’d made himself the villain in every story so that Gi-hun could remain the hero in at least one.

His hand rises before he can stop it - hesitant, trembling - hovering just at the edge of light, just far enough to be seen if Gi-hun were to glance the wrong way at the right time. 

Just once, he thinks. Let him look this way. Let him see that he’s not as alone as he believes.

But then clarity returns, cold and exact.

To be seen would be to undo everything. To step out now would be to place his ruin in Gi-hun’s hands again.

And hasn’t he done that enough? Hasn’t he already asked too much from the only person who ever stayed?

Gi-hun is alone, yes - but not dragged down, not broken by the gravity of someone else’s ruin. He walks heavy, but he walks clean. That, Sang-woo tells himself, must be enough.

So he lowers his hand, slowly, folding it back into the dark where it belongs.

Gi-hun walks on, gaze fixed forward, never knowing how close he came to the past.

When he is gone, Sang-woo looks once more toward his mother's stall. She is closing up, hands steady, quietly humming something soft and familiar.

He whispers once more, unheard, "I'm okay, Eomma."

He turns away, moving slowly - toward the bridge, toward the river, toward the quiet end he’s chosen.

And if he doesn’t look back, it’s because he knows this is the only way to leave them whole.

He loved them both too much to stay and break what little they still have left.

 

 

The water is black tonight.

The kind of black that drinks light and does not return it. The black of the abyss when it finally opens its mouth and dares you to step in.

And Sang-woo is listening.

He stands at the railing of the bridge, alone on the Han, shivering as the wind cuts through his suit - what remains of it - his knuckles white where they grip the steel. Cars pass behind him, headlights glancing off puddles, someone’s laughter too far away to be real.

He wonders if it will be cold, if it will hurt, if the water will hold him gently, if he will even notice the world vanishing from above.

He closes his eyes and prepares, for the last time, to let go.

But as he leans, ready - finally ready - a flicker of motion brushes his knuckles. He jerks back, startled not by the touch itself but by the interruption, the audacity of it. A figure in a black hood passes beside him, barely a shadow in the rain, already receding into the night.

Between Sang-woo’s fingers: a card.

Circle. Triangle. Square.

He stares at it, unable to breathe, unwilling to look away.

Of course.

The Games, it seems, have a sense of occasion.

The same quiet proposition. The same moment as before - when death had almost taken him, and a doorbell had rung instead.

He turns the card over and reads the address.

Tomorrow. 11 p.m. Sirubong-ro 1-gil. In front of the Dooly Museum.

He waits for disgust. For outrage. For the righteous voice that would tell him to spit in their face, to die on his own terms and deny them their spectacle.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, the relief is so vast, so clean, it nearly topples him.

What a relief, he thinks - how shamefully, how deeply - what a relief that someone, somewhere, still knows what he is and finds use for it. That someone has seen him, truly seen him, and has chosen to call him back, not for redemption or love, but for the brutal efficiency of what he can do.

Because what does it mean to be chosen again? Why is he relieved, when he should feel horror?

He stands there a long time, card in hand, and finally allows himself the brutal honesty he has denied for years.

He was always good at being chosen. From the first day he came home with perfect grades and saw his mother’s face crack open in wordless joy. From the afternoons he spent tracing his path to SNU, all those nights when sleep was just an obstacle to ambition. To the years spent in conference rooms with older men and their shark’s smiles, learning to study them, mirror them, outplay them.

He learned to make himself useful. He learned to make himself irreplaceable. He learned to make himself indispensable.

And he liked it. God, he liked it.

He liked the weight of expectation. The doors it opened. The fear it put into other people’s eyes. He liked the feeling of being necessary.

He thinks of the Games. How nothing there surprised him except, perhaps, the simplicity of it. The same skills, repurposed: read, measure, strategize, cut loose the weak, ascend, ascend, ascend. 

He was only doing what was necessary - what survival demanded, what others refused to see until it was too late. Isn’t that what he was made for? To see the lines no one else could see, to cross them when others hesitated?

He remembers what he said to the masked man: Do you genuinely think I’m desperate enough to find dignity in this?

He wants to laugh at himself - at the memory of that defiance, that precious pride. At the idiot who still thought dignity was something you could keep, something you could die for, something you could weaponize against a world that only knows how to use you up.

But tonight - here, at the edge, with nothing left but the dark and the rain and the cold that will not let him in - the answer is so shamefully, nakedly, devastatingly clear.

Yes.

Yes, he thinks, gripping the card so hard the edges bite his palm. Yes, I am that desperate. I am desperate enough to take dignity wherever it is offered, even if it’s at the bottom of the abyss.

Because what is dignity, really, but the lie you tell yourself to survive another day?

And who was he, ever, if not the man who survived?

He cannot finish the job, not tonight. He cannot let go, not when the world has called him useful once more. 

Sang-woo slips the card into his pocket, turns, and walks off the bridge.

 

The Dooly Museum is closed. The cartoon dinosaur grins down through the rain, absurd and grotesque.

Sang-woo waits, wet and exhausted, at the curb. At 11:01 p.m, the van arrives, door sliding open with silent inevitability.

He gets in without hesitation and lets himself fall asleep to the hiss of gas, to the sweet, pitiless relief of oblivion, knowing that the darkness will, for once, keep him safe.

 

 

Sang-woo wakes to quiet opulence.

He blinks into a ceiling gilded with lines of silver, light falling over a bedroom designed by someone with taste, money, and the confidence that comes from never asking the price. The sheets are impossibly soft. The air is cool, perfumed with something medicinal and floral - expensive, subtle, and just slightly off.

He sits up slowly, disoriented, still in the ruined remains of his old suit, wrinkled and stained. He swings his legs off the bed and walks barefoot through a set of double glass doors.

The hallway opens into something too grand to be called a living room.

It’s a chamber.

Minimalist. Shadow-black furniture. A long dining table made of solid granite. A sculpture near the wall that may or may not be worth more than his old apartment. And seated at the head of the table, unmoving, is a man in a golden Owl mask.

Sang-woo doesn’t move forward immediately. Instead, his gaze fixes on the mask. The memory comes fast, uninvited - the glass wall in the hospital, the figure behind it, watching him with a kind of still, exact interest. Like a bird of prey measuring flight distance to a dying animal.

He finally steps into the room, cautious.

The man speaks first. His voice is soft, aged, composed.

“Good morning, Mr. Cho. Please, sit.”

Sang-woo doesn’t move to the chair. He stares at the man. At the perfectly pressed cuffs. At the hands resting gently on the table. And that voice, that cadence - something about it scratches at the back of his mind.

“Where...”

He doesn’t finish the question. He’s not even sure what he was asking. Where did I hear that voice? Where do I know you from? Where am I now?

“You’ve had time to think,” the man says, evenly. “Now I’ll ask again. Do you accept the job?”

A beat.

Sang-woo looks around the room, at the impossible luxury. At the trap he already said yes to, back on the bridge, the card still burning in his pocket like a brand.

“Yes.”

The man inclines his head, like a formality’s been completed.

“I appreciate decisiveness,” he says. “It’s a trait you displayed even under pressure. I watched you, you know, from the beginning. From the selection process to the very last Game.”

Then, with slow, deliberate care, he reaches up and removes the Owl mask.

And everything inside Sang-woo stops.

The face is older than he remembers. Thinner. Paler. The hair drawn back, the eyes framed with deeper lines. But the smile is the same. The stillness. The calm behind the eyes.

Player 001.

Sang-woo’s heart stumbles in his chest, but his expression holds steady. Inside, he feels his world tilt, the ground shifting beneath him - but outwardly, he is stone. He will not let it show.

The man smiles faintly. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” the man says. “How different a person looks when they’re not playing the part you expect. A man in a mask, or a man in a tracksuit. Both can be fiction.”

Sang-woo doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

For a moment, the man just studies him, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with something like amusement.

“I realize,” Il-nam says, voice gentle, “that I never introduced myself properly, even after all this time.” A pause, as if savoring the moment. “My name is Oh Il-nam.”

He goes on, but Sang-woo barely hears the rest - a gentle, almost apologetic explanation about how he built the Games, how the world is run on spectacle, how boredom is the only true disease of the rich. There’s something about a tumor, about dying, about wanting to feel something before the end. It washes past Sang-woo in a gray wave.

All he can think about is Gi-hun, and the way this man let himself be trusted, while lying every minute. Sang-woo lets the words fall away, lets the mask of calm settle over his features, but his jaw aches with the effort not to break.

He only half-registers when Il-nam gestures to the suit, folded perfectly on the chair next to him - gray wool, clean lines, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie.

Il-nam speaks quietly. “You’ll find the tailoring familiar. It’s close to what you wore in Seoul, isn’t it? In many ways, this is not so different a job.”

Sang-woo glances at the suit. Then, slowly, to the object resting on top.

A mask. Sleek, metallic - almost identical in shape to Il-nam’s golden Owl mask, but this one is silver. As he studies it, he notices the subtle differences: the face curved forward, the sharp, unmistakable beak of-

“It’s a…”

His voice barely escapes him. He doesn’t mean to speak aloud.

Il-nam answers for him.

“A raven.”

Sang-woo looks at him.

“Ravens are clever - great at solving problems, spotting patterns, even using tools. They understand social dynamics, too. Some can remember a face for years… especially those who wronged them.”

He reaches a hand toward the mask but doesn’t touch it.

“You’ll wear this when you leave your quarters. When you attend meetings. When you speak to anyone not authorized to see your face.”

A beat.

“Your title,” he says, “is Auditor.”

Sang-woo’s gaze doesn’t leave the mask.

“Auditor,” he repeats, softly.

Il-nam gives the faintest nod.

“As the Auditor, you’re not merely an observer. You have oversight.” He leans back slightly. “You’ll review our systems. Identify weaknesses. Analyze patterns. Propose corrections. In short, you will do what you were always best at.”

He gestures to the suit.

“Your uniform marks your rank and grants you access to any boardroom, control floor, or Game property. You will not be challenged, unless by one with authority equal to or above your own.”

He glances up, meeting Sang-woo’s eyes.

“The Games are larger than you imagine. I am the Founder, but rarely the sole decision-maker now. There are seven Principal Hosts - directors for each continental division, chosen for their capacity to operate above the law. You will report directly to me and to my second, the man you met in the hospital, Hwang In-ho. Locally, he serves as Leader for this region.”

He lets this sink in, watching Sang-woo’s reactions.

“You are required to answer also to the assembled Principal Board - an executive committee comprised of myself, In-ho, and the other continental heads: North America, Europe, Africa, South America and Oceania. Twice yearly, you will deliver comprehensive audits and risk analyses. Your recommendations could decide how the Games run, not just here, but worldwide.”

Il-nam’s smile fades, just slightly.

“We’ve had… disappointments. Financial rot beneath the spectacle. Mismanagement, fraud, corruption. Entire regional branches drifting toward insolvency. Some…already collapsed.”

His gaze sharpens.

“You were not our first choice. But you are the first one I trust to be effective. You see, Mr. Cho, it is not simply a game. It is an ecosystem - a delicate, savage thing. And like any ecosystem, it is only as stable as its weakest element. Your role is to ensure the whole does not collapse because one root is rotting.”

He gestures to the mask again.

“You will wear the Raven whenever you act as Auditor. The Owl is a judge. But the Raven is a strategist - smart, adaptable, first to arrive and last to leave.”

A pause, almost fond.

“It suits you.”

Il-nam stands, slow but steady, straightening his cuffs.

“These are your new quarters. I trust you’ll find them to your liking.”

He walks past Sang-woo toward the door. Then, without turning:

“My colleague will brief you soon. You’ll have full access to all internal accounts, records, personnel files. Use what you need. What we expect is simple: precision. And results.”

At the threshold, he glances back just once.

“Your work starts tomorrow.”

Then he turns and walks out, the hush of the closing door the only ceremony Sang-woo receives.

 

 

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Two hours after Il-nam’s departure, the suite’s main door opens with a soft chime. Sang-woo stands in the center of the room, silver mask in hand, already feeling the pressure of unfamiliar ground. He turns as the footsteps approach.

The man who enters is all in black - shirt, trousers, shoes. Even without the mask, Sang-woo recognizes the bearing: the way he stands, the measured pause, the gaze that weighs the room before settling on him.

They study each other for a breath.

“Hwang In-ho,” the man says, extending his hand. “Leader of the Korean branch.”

Sang-woo steps forward and shakes his hand. He’s already in the role - shoulders set, eyes level, voice steady.

“Cho Sang-woo,” he replies, even though they both already know.

There’s a brief pause - just the smallest flicker of approval in In-ho’s eyes.

“You’ve been briefed,” In-ho says. “Or, rather, delivered into the deep end. That’s how Il-nam prefers it.”

Sang-woo answers immediately. “I can swim.”

A faint smile appears at the corner of In-ho’s mouth. It’s gone in a second.

“I don’t doubt it.”

He gestures for Sang-woo to sit and takes the chair opposite him at the table. 

“We’ve met, in a way,” Sang-woo says, voice low but confident. “At the hospital. You were… less direct.”

In-ho inclines his head, acknowledging the truth. “We had to be cautious. You weren’t… a certainty yet.”

“It’s good to see who I was talking to.” Sang-woo answers.

A nod. “You’ll find I’m more straightforward without the mask. I appreciate the same from you.”

They regard each other for a moment.

“You’ll have a team,” In-ho continues. “I’ll introduce you to them after your security briefings. Most will come from operations, logistics, and finance. Some are transfers from other countries. They’re capable, but they’ll need your direction.”

Sang-woo files this away, already piecing together how he’ll test their loyalties, their competence.

“Most of my reports go through you?”

“Almost all,” In-ho says. “Il-nam expects updates, but I’m your point of contact for daily decisions. You’ll have authority to act independently, but don’t confuse that with immunity. If you need something, or someone, I’m your first call. That includes any questions about jurisdiction, internal policy, or, well…problems.”

Sang-woo hears the weight in the last word.

In-ho’s tone shifts, almost dry. “You’ll find this job familiar. High stakes. Ugly problems. But you know the territory. If you need advice, you’ll get it. If you need cover, you’ll have it. If you need distance, I expect you to take it.”

Sang-woo meets his gaze. “Understood.”

For a heartbeat, something unspoken passes between them - mutual calculation, the quiet recognition of shared danger and shared competence.

In-ho nods once.

“Welcome to the other side, Mr. Cho.”

And for the first time, Sang-woo allows himself the ghost of a smile.

He has never believed in easy trust. But in this room, in this company, he finds something almost as valuable: the possibility of respect.

 

 

It surprises him how quickly that respect deepens into understanding.

How understanding, over months and continents, begins to take the shape of camaraderie.

How camaraderie turned into something that, if he were a more sentimental man, he might have called friendship.

They become a team others whisper about. The Auditor and the Leader: sharp, tireless, impossible to fool. The pair who can untangle any mess - financial or human - while keeping the Games’ ugly machinery running in the shadows.

They cross the world together in brief, electric intervals - two months here, a few weeks there, always just long enough to leave an imprint. Geneva’s frostbitten winters, London’s restless rain, Tokyo’s insomniac nights, New York’s vertical loneliness. Two weeks in Buenos Aires, three days in Santiago, a month in Los Angeles. Airports become their second offices; hotel lobbies, their uneasy common ground.

It starts in silence, with mutual efficiency: reports exchanged, data cross-checked, plans executed to the letter. At first, their communication is all business. There is no time for pleasantries, no reason for anything soft.

But somewhere between Instanbul and Berlin, the edge blunts. Sang-woo notices the first glimmer of something new when In-ho hands him a mug of coffee - just how he likes it - before a long night of numbers. When they walk out of a disastrous meeting and Sang-woo mutters, “Could’ve gone worse,” and In-ho snorts, a sound that might be a laugh.

Gradually, praise begins to slip into the cracks.

“Well done,” In-ho says, quietly, after Sang-woo unmasks a sprawling European fraud with nothing but a laptop and a scowl.

“Not bad yourself,” Sang-woo replies, later, after In-ho orchestrates the silent firing of a Recruiter who’d let slip to a journalist in Busan.

Some nights, they end up on a rooftop - Shanghai, Manhattan, São Paulo - drinks in hand, city lights reflecting in Sang-woo’s glasses. They speak less about the Games and more about the world: Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy, Rousseau or Hobbes, whether English gin can ever truly beat Korean soju (it can’t, but the debate is endless).

Language becomes another game. In-ho teaches Sang-woo French for meetings in Paris and Zurich, correcting his pronunciation with a rare patience and the occasional dry joke. When Sang-woo nails a particularly difficult phrase, In-ho just raises his glass in salute and says, “Pas mal, Monsieur Cho.”

Sang-woo pretends to be annoyed by the lessons, but he keeps a notebook full of words. Sometimes he practices late at night, when sleep won’t come, murmuring sentences to the empty room.

Once, at a tense meeting with Swiss investors, In-ho writes a note across the table - courage, c’est presque fini - and Sang-woo has to bite back a smile.

Sometimes, after impossible days, they find themselves lingering in the empty conference room long after everyone else has gone.

Without a word, they remove their masks: In-ho’s angular one placed carefully on the table, Sang-woo’s silver Raven untied, set beside it. Ties loosened, sleeves rolled up, they sit side by side at the long table still littered with empty glasses and abandoned notes.

In-ho uncorks a bottle - something expensive, usually half-forgotten from a client’s bribe - and pours them each a glass. They drink without toasting. Sometimes they speak, sometimes not. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s companionable, edged with exhaustion, a rare reprieve from performance.

They never speak of their own lives before all this - never of families, debts, or what they left behind. That line is never crossed. Instead, they build a friendship out of all the things they do share: intelligence, ambition, sleepless nights, an appetite for problems no one else wants to solve.

Once, in a dim bar in Lisbon, red wine seeping into their napkins, Sang-woo leans against the counter, stifling laughter as In-ho - cheeks flushed, waving his glass - slurs his way through a line of Fernando Pessoa, stumbling so badly Sang-woo has to rescue the poem halfway through.

In Paris, Sang-woo, still running on adrenaline from some narrow, beautiful victory, raises his glass for a toast in careful, uncertain French; In-ho only smiles back, lifting his own glass in silent approval, letting the moment linger untouched by correction.

But there are boundaries - always. In-ho is the Leader, and Sang-woo the Auditor, the blade at his side. The line between them is visible and respected, never crossed.

But within that space, loyalty takes root. There are in-jokes, shared silences, and the kind of camaraderie born of mutual survival and relentless expectation.

If anyone asks, they are colleagues, nothing more.

But in those rare, late hours when the rest of the world sleeps and the city outside their window blurs into light, there is laughter - dry and infrequent, but real. There is a hand steadying a glass, a wordless toast, a cigarette shared at dawn.

It isn’t easy, and it isn’t safe. But it is, somehow, enough.

And sometimes, in the quiet after, when the city is only a hum below them, Sang-woo looks at In-ho and almost allows himself to hope. That if trust can be built here - between two men like them - then maybe anything can be rebuilt, piece by careful piece.

For men who have spent their lives betting against the world, it is almost a kind of victory.

For men who do not believe in friendship, it is the closest thing they will ever have.

 

 

They are drunk, both of them, and it feels good.

Not just tipsy, but flushed-cheeked, grinning, half-collapsed in the low chairs in In-ho’s quarters, empty bottles gathered at their feet like trophies, air smelling of whisky.

They’re celebrating - not just surviving, but winning. The Korean Games, their Games, dragged back from the brink of bankruptcy with a maneuver so sharp that even the Board grudgingly praised them.

“To us,” Sang-woo says, raising his glass. “To the only two men who could save this disaster.”

“And to Il-nam,” In-ho says, raising his glass. His voice wavers only a little. “Gone, but still judging us from somewhere.”

Sang-woo clinks his glass against In-ho’s. “He’d be furious we did it without him.”

“Or smug that he picked the right bastards,” In-ho says, and they both dissolve into a rare, reckless kind of laughter.

Drunk, and light-headed from the relief of it all, they laugh about a Leader in South America who tried to fund his own opera house through shell corporations; about a particularly incompetent VIP who forgot their mask mid-ceremony; about Sang-woo pretending to fall asleep during a video call with the European board just to make a point. In-ho nearly chokes on his drink at that one.

“God,” he says, wiping his mouth, “they were so pissed.”

“They still are.” Sang-woo grins. “I got a spreadsheet titled ‘actionable disrespect’ last week.”

A few more drinks in, Sang-woo rolls his head back, sighs contentedly, and squints around the room. He’s been here before, but never with this sense of belonging, never with the walls so open. His gaze settles on the little stage in the far corner - a miniature jazz band, each figure exquisitely detailed: drummer, pianist, saxophonist, trumpetist, and, standing at the front, a singer in a scarlet dress.

He points, a lazy question rolling from his tongue.

“What is that thing? I always see it, but I never knew. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. That’s what it plays, right? Someone give it to you?”

In-ho’s smile fades, just slightly. He glances at the little stage, then away.

“No. Just something I picked up.”

“Yeah, but…” Sang-woo leans forward, curious and a little too bold with the drink. “‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” he says, surprised. “Didn’t peg you for sentimental.”

In-ho shrugs, looking away. “Everyone collects something.”

The mood, for a moment, is brittle. Sang-woo studies him, then blurts out - half-laughing, half-serious, “It’s funny. I don’t know anything about you, do I?”

In-ho’s gaze sharpens, instinctive, defensive. “You know plenty.”

Sang-woo shakes his head. “No, I mean…real things. I know you like bad coffee, and you hate white wine, and you have opinions about jazz. But you-” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “You know all about me. My mother, my old life, my debts. Everything. Feels a little unbalanced, doesn’t it?”

In-ho’s jaw tightens. “I know those things because I had to.”

“Still,” Sang-woo presses, “it’s strange. All this time together, all these nights, and you never once talk about your own life.”

In-ho puts his glass down. “You know the rules, Sang-woo. I only knew those things because I had to. I had to investigate you. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Sang-woo stares at him, jaw set. “Right. It’s always business with you, isn’t it?”

In-ho’s gaze is steady, but his voice is tired. “You know what this job is. You know why we can’t-”

“Can’t what?” Sang-woo demands, heat rising. “Can’t be honest? Can’t be…what? Human?”

A beat of silence, tense and electric.

In-ho stands, suddenly weary. “You’re drunk, Sang-woo.”

“So are you.”

The moment cracks, the warmth leaking out of the room.

Sang-woo looks away, jaw clenched, and In-ho turns to refill his glass, neither of them willing to cross the room or the silence now stretching out between them.

They finish their drinks in silence.

 

 

Sang-woo sits at his wide, empty desk. His glasses slip – again - and he pushes them up, annoyed, for the third time in five minutes. The spreadsheet glares back at him, the rules for the Fifth Game outlined in bullet points that, despite their corporate shine, feel absurdly childish.

Maze design, number of finalists, max ten. Suggested average survival rate: 14.2%. Notes from the Creative team: “Labyrinth of Choices” - “metaphor for moral ambiguity” - “Players must sacrifice others to progress.”

Not my job, he thinks, stabbing the down arrow.

It isn’t. Game structure is the province of the Designers and the Writing committee, not the Auditor and his Financial team.

But In-ho did pull him out of a disaster a few months ago, smooth-talking the American Board’s advisors in a way Sang-woo couldn’t, somehow turning Wall Street sharks into housecats in a single meeting. He never said thank you for that, just a stiff nod and a note in his ledger: Favor owed. Unpaid.

Now, In-ho has called it in - he wants his opinion on the finalist count, because apparently the Game Designers “aren’t thinking like real people.” In-ho’s words.

Sang-woo’s fingers hover over the keyboard. The temptation to add a comment that says “Who the fuck wrote this?” in the margin is strong. He does. Then deletes it, sighs, and keeps his fingers poised above the keyboard.

Not. His. Job.

He’s halfway through the rules for the Maze when In-ho appears, knocking once and then letting himself in.

“Sang-woo,” In-ho says, “got a minute?”

“Is this another thing that’s not my job?” Sang-woo doesn’t look up.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” In-ho deadpans. “Actually, I need help selecting a new Officer from the Manager Guards. One of them’s going to take my role.”

Since Il-nam’s death, In-ho’s inherited more duties than he can delegate, and less time to actually lead. The Games start in three months. Someone else will have to take the Leader role, run the day-to-day.

Sang-woo finally looks up, blinking, noticing the file in In-ho’s hand. “There’s a whole department for that.”

“I don’t trust them.”

“Sure. And naturally, that leads you to me.”

In-ho only tilts his head slightly. "If I leave it to the Recruiting team, they’ll choose whoever looks best on paper.  I need someone who knows how to read between lines. And fine, also because you owe me."

Sang-woo sighs, adjusting his glasses again. They fall immediately. He pulls up the Manager list with one hand and keeps scrolling the maze proposal with the other. 

“I’ll look at the candidates. But for the record, still not my job.”

“I know.”

There’s an awkward beat. In-ho stands, silent, in the center of the office, as if calculating the next move. 

“You want the job?” In-ho asks, almost offhand.

Sang-woo doesn’t even pause. “Absolutely not. I don’t want direct blood on my hands. I like the paperwork. I’ll stay behind the curtain.”

“Figured.” In-ho nods, as if confirming a bet with himself.

Sang-woo returns to his files, the familiar, numbing comfort of numbers and policies, and tries to lose himself.

Not my job, he thinks again. He almost wants to say it out loud.

In-ho turns to go - but pauses.

That, more than anything, makes Sang-woo look up. The hesitation is small. But it’s wrong. In-ho doesn’t hesitate. He either speaks or he doesn’t.

He realizes, just as In-ho opens his mouth again, that they’re about to break The Rule. The unwritten one. The one where they don’t talk about who they used to be.

“There’s something else you should know.” In-ho says, low. “About your mother.”

Sang-woo’s hand freezes over the mouse. He keeps his face still, keeps his eyes on the monitor. “Go on.”

“She’s… fine. She’s doing well. Player 456 gave her some money. Like you asked, when you-”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

And just like that, Sang-woo isn’t in the office anymore. The file, the rules, the screen - all of it vanishes, and he’s standing in the marketplace again, invisible, listening to his mother talk about nothing and everything with Gi-hun.

It’s been - what, a year and a half? More?

He thought Gi-hun would forget, that time would eat the promise the way it eats everything else.

But of course Gi-hun kept his promise.

That fool. That good, stupid man.

Sang-woo adjusts his glasses again, staring at the line about the ten finalists again, like it might rewrite itself.

“Thank you for telling me.” He doesn’t let his voice shake.

In-ho hesitates again, then adds, softer,  “One more thing. Your mother… she’s not alone. She’s taking care of Player 67’s little brother. I thought you should know.”

Sang-woo goes still. The cursor blinks in the corner of a clause about mandatory dead ends.

Sae-byeok. He tries to summon her face but comes up only with fragments: the bright violence of blood, the sharp sound of her breath when he drove the knife home, the way her body folded.

He tells himself he should be relieved - grateful, even - that his mother is not alone anymore. There’s a boy now, living in that apartment, someone to fill the silences he left behind. Someone who laughs at her clumsy jokes, eats the food she once made for him, whose shoes wait by the door each evening.

But gratitude feels too thin for what’s twisting inside him. Instead, there’s a quiet ache - a slow, hollowing grief, as if some old wound is being tended to and torn open at the same time.

The brother of a girl he sent to her death, kept safe by the woman he abandoned.

The contradiction sits with him, silent and heavy.

He almost says something. Anything. Instead, he clears his throat and stares harder at the spreadsheet.

“I see,” he finally says, and the words feel both too heavy and too small. “Thank you, In-ho.”

In-ho lingers, then nods once and leaves.

Sang-woo turns back to the screen, resumes editing - adjusting the rules for a Game he’ll never watch. His glasses slide down his nose again and he pushes them up without looking.

He doesn’t think about Gi-hun, or Sae-byeok, or the boy in his mother’s kitchen.

He doesn’t think about anything at all.

He just keeps working.

Notes:

Yes… I know this chapter kind of just… ends in the middle of nowhere. That’s the curse of The Great Split™.

But Part II is coming really, really soon (like, genuinely soon - just a few final tweaks and it’s ready to go). I’m so excited for you to see where this goes next.
As always, kudos and comments mean the world to me, so feel free to scream, cry, theorize, or just leave a heart.

See you soon for Part II! <3

Chapter 12: Intermezzo, Part II

Notes:

Hello dear readers!

Here I come, at long last, to bring you Part II of Intermezzo! I can see you squinting already, remembering how I cheerfully declared in my last note that this chapter was ‘technically ready.’ And it was. Technically. In the way a cake is “technically ready” when you’ve pulled it out of the oven but it’s still molten in the middle and liable to collapse if anyone so much as breathes on it.

The trouble was that this Chapter is far less about action and far more about introspection (yes, even more than Part I), which meant I kept rewriting, adding, trimming, and then adding back the bits I’d trimmed. Getting the tone right proved particularly tricky, and I may or may not have briefly contemplated faking my own death instead of finishing it.

One small note before we begin: this Chapter contains quite a bit of financial material. I have precisely zero education in this field, so if anything sounds slightly off or incorrect, please feel free to let me know so I can fix it.

Anyway, thank you for your patience, for sticking with me, and for coming back even when I take twice as long as promised. I hope this Chapter was worth the wait.

Enjoy!

It begins, as these things always do, with a decision that looks small from the outside.

Gi-hun didn’t board the plane to Los Angeles. Determined, In-ho says, to hunt the Games down at the roots.

Sang-woo pretends not to notice. He works late, pen scratching over financial projections, red lines cutting through risk matrices, convincing himself that Gi-hun will run out of steam - he’s always had a gambler’s patience, but not the discipline.

In-ho leans against his desk one evening, voice easy, almost amused. “He’s not going to find us. We’re careful. We move people, switch lines. He’s chasing shadows, Sang-woo. That’s all he’ll ever catch.”

And In-ho is right, at least for a while. The summer rolls in, and the Games unfold without a hitch. Players are recruited. Blood is spilled on schedule. No disruption.

Autumn comes, and then bleeds into winter. The cycle repeats itself. The world keeps turning, and the Games keep running, quiet and uninterrupted. Gi-hun never finds the Recruiter. Never even comes close.

Spring breaks the frost, and with it, Gi-hun changes his approach. He has people now - watchers posted at every subway platform, every station he can cover. Eyes in the crowd, scanning for the man in the suit. The hunt consumes him, but it doesn’t work.

Another year turns over, another summer comes and goes, and still nothing.

Until the summer of 2024.

 

 

 

Sang-woo is not given to superstition, but he knows the weight of patterns. He knows when numbers start to hum wrong in his ear.

He stands just inside the door of In-ho’s office, file pressed flat in his hands. He stares at the folder for a moment, reading the line at the top one last time before stepping forward.

“The Recruiter in Seoul hasn’t reported in seventy-two hours.” He says, dropping the folder onto In-ho’s desk, with just enough force to be noticed, not enough to count as anger. “There’s protocol. After every cycle, every station, they check in. Two missed reports is an escalation. Four is breach. We’re at six. That’s not standard.”

In-ho regards the folder without touching it.

“You know the manual,” Sang-woo goes on. “Any break in transmission, any deviation from the schedule, we escalate. You told me that yourself, when I started here. You were… very clear.”

In-ho’s eyes flick up. “I was.”

Sang-woo presses, careful to keep his voice neutral. “You’re not concerned?”

“About a Recruiter who failed to clock out?” In-ho’s reply is dry, almost amused. “Not particularly. We have redundancies.”

“Redundancies,” Sang-woo repeats. His eyes narrow, but he forces his hands to remain still. “He’s the only contact in Seoul Gi-hun ever had. The only one we know approached him directly. And now, he’s vanished with no warning. Three days, In-ho.”

In-ho leans back slightly. “Recruitment has turnover. Field work is dangerous.”

But Sang-woo’s mind is already racing ahead, connecting dots, re-reading every shadow of Gi-hun’s investigation over the last year. The subway stakeouts, his team, the dead ends - always just out of reach. He feels something heavy press against his chest, a suspicion he cannot afford to name.

He says, too quietly, “He found him.”

A silence yawns open, wider than before.

Then it clicks. He straightens, lets the chill of understanding settle into his bones.

“You knew,” Sang-woo adds, almost as an afterthought. “You knew Gi-hun would find him.”

In-ho says nothing.

“You assured me,” Sang-woo continues, voice low, “that we had eyes on him. That we were diverting the Recruiter from his usual stations. You’ve moved the operation five times these last two years. You told me – explicitly - that he wouldn’t get close. What changed?”

In-ho doesn’t answer at first. He seems to weight the cost of speaking against the comfort of silence.

“New instructions,” he says, at last.

“What instructions?”

In-ho folds his hands, measured. “We’re to let him proceed. The Board wants him to find us.”

“Why?” Sang-woo says, and it’s almost a whisper. “Why would they want-” He stops himself, but can’t quite finish the sentence. “You’re letting him in?”

“We’re opening the door,” In-ho says, voice calm. “And making sure he believes it was his own hand on the latch.”

A chill slides beneath his collar.

“You’re putting him back in the Games.”

“Not putting. Inviting. The distinction matters to the Board.”

“You call this an invitation? He’s obsessed. He’s been sleepwalking through subway stations, hiring loan sharks, burning his own life down for a scrap of evidence. He’s not making a choice, he’s following a trail you set.”

In-ho studies him, eyes unreadable. “That’s the story they want. Redemption, spectacle, the ‘returning champion.’ The VIPs are invested, Sang-woo. They want to see what happens when a winner chooses to risk it all again.”

“His kindness will kill him.”

The words escape before Sang-woo can stop them - unfiltered, unsanctioned, absurdly human. They drop into the air like a verdict, and for a moment, neither man moves.

In-ho’s face shifts. Not enough for most to notice - but Sang-woo does. Not surprise at the meaning, but at the voice it came from. At the fact that it came from him.

But Sang-woo doesn’t let the silence grow roots. He keeps going, as if forward motion might disguise what he just revealed.

“Gi-hun nearly died the first time,” he says, quieter now. “You remember. You saw what was left of him when it was over. The only reason he made it out was-”

He stops. The end of the sentence burns in his throat. He exhales through his nose, and the next words come bitter, small, resigned.

“You think he’ll walk out twice?”

“That’s not up to me.”

“Isn’t it? You’re the Host.”

“And you’re the Auditor,” In-ho says. “You know how this works. The Board decides, we make it happen. Adjust the pieces, keep the machine running.”

“No,” Sang-woo says. “You orchestrate. And you told me you didn’t want him near this place again.”

In-ho’s expression doesn’t change. “I didn’t.”

“Then fight it.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t,” Sang-woo snaps.

Silence.

Sang-woo steps forward, lowers his voice, and, for once, lets it sound like a plea.

“Talk to them. Push back. Tell them it compromises structural integrity, breaks continuity, undermines system anonymity. Invent something. There are hundreds of ways to spin it.”

In-ho gives him a long, measured look. “You care more than I realized.”

“It’s not about caring.” Sang-woo’s eyes glitter. “It’s about logic. About keeping the system intact. About not letting a single man’s heroic acts become the lever that destroys the Games.”

“Is that what you believe?” In-ho asks, voice soft.

Sang-woo’s breath shudders, almost undetectable. He doesn’t answer.

For a moment, he lets himself see it: Gi-hun, head high, eyes clear, walking back into the slaughter because he convinced himself he could save everyone. The kind of faith that looks like foolishness, until you realize it’s the rarest thing in the world.

It is the very thing he despises in Gi-hun - and the very thing he cannot help but love.

“If you have any influence left, use it.” Sang-woo tries again, voice is low, fraying at the edges. “Argue the case. Try every angle. If there’s a loophole, exploit it. If there’s a favor left to call, call it. Just keep him out. I’ll back you with anything you need. We can find a different novelty, a better show. There are other ways to entertain the VIPs. Please, In-ho. For once.”

“You’ve never said ‘please’ before.” In-ho’s voice is gentler than it should be.

Sang-woo looks away. “Don’t get used to it.”

In-ho’s nod is almost imperceptible. “I’ll speak to them again,” he says. “But I can’t promise anything.”

Sang-woo shakes his head, the gesture so small it’s almost a tremor.  He gathers the folder from In-ho’s desk, hands unsteady, papers threatening to slip from his grip. At the door, he pauses - breath caught, chest tight with all the things he can’t bring himself to say.

“Let me know if you need numbers to back your argument,” he says. “Otherwise, I have work to do.”

 

 

Sang-woo knows something is wrong the moment In-ho steps into his office.

It’s in the way he carries himself - shoulders drawn in tighter than usual, the line of his spine held too straight. He moves like a man rehearsing calm, not living it. 

In-ho closes the door without looking around, a folder held neatly in his hands.

“This came in a few days ago,” he says. “The Board asked me to give it to you personally.”

He sets it down and slides it across the desk.

Sang-woo doesn’t touch it right away. He studies In-ho instead - the measured placement of his hands, the unreadable stillness of his face, the faint precision in his breathing. Whatever is in the folder, In-ho already knows, and it has made him careful.

Only when it’s clear no more explanation is coming does Sang-woo reach for the folder. The cardboard is warm from In-ho’s hand.

The file opens with a soft crack, and the first page stares up at him - typed in that same sanitized font the Board uses for their “off-ledger” work. There's a date in the corner, recent. 

He starts reading.

And within seconds, the room is gone.

No, not the walls or the floor - but him. His presence. His focus. It’s all slipping.  His eyes keep tracking the sentences, but his brain tries to crawl out from under them.

There’s a voice in his head already saying no no no no no, but he keeps reading, because that’s what he does. He understands. He analyzes. He digests.

He tells himself he’s flipping through it with professional distance, but by the third page, his hands have gone clammy.

By the fifth, there’s a ringing in his ears, sharp and high, as though the air itself is collapsing in on him.

By the seventh page, his body remembers it’s human. His stomach folds in on itself. His lungs begin to revolt. He realizes he’s been swallowing dry air this whole time, mouth open, heart banging a frantic, stupid rhythm against his ribs.

The folder slips from his grip. It hits the desk, then tumbles half-open, the pages fanning out with a soft sigh - like the last breath of someone who knew it was coming.

He doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly his chair is rolling back across the floor, a muted, shuddering glide that leaves him further from the desk than he meant to be. His legs feel unsteady when he stands, as though they belong to someone else.

He crosses the short space to the far wall and plants both palms flat against it. Not to lean, but to feel something solid. Something that will hold him here, in this room, in this moment, because if he doesn’t anchor himself to the weight of it, he will drift somewhere he knows he cannot return from.

There’s no name for what he just read.

It doesn’t belong to any discipline he knows - not finance, not warfare, not psychology, not even the obscene internal logic that keeps the Games running. It isn’t a strategy, or a system, or any kind of design that could be mistaken for progress. It carries none of the language of planning, none of the polish of innovation.

It feels older than all of that.

As if someone had reached down into the oldest, foulest place in the human soul. Past myth. Past morality. Past even the familiar shapes of cruelty. They had kept going, further than anyone should, until their hand closed around something buried deep in the dark.

And then, without hesitation, they pulled it up into the light.

And someone - many someones - approved it.

Not just approved. Drafted, revised, polished.

It had been proofread.

“Tell me this isn’t yours.” Sang-woo manages to say.

Silence.

“In-ho,” Sang-woo says, quieter now. “Tell me this wasn’t your idea.”

A beat.

“It’s not mine,” In-ho says.

Sang-woo doesn’t turn around. “Then whose?”

In-ho sighs behind him. It’s a long one, and it carries too much.

“The Board.”

Of course.

“I voted against it,” In-ho says, more gently now. “So did two others. But it didn’t matter. They don’t need us to agree. Just enough of them to pass a vote.”

The silence that follows has weight.

Sang-woo turns, slow, dizzy with nausea. His stomach feels like it’s holding its breath. The folder’s still open, obscene and casual. The diagrams stare back at him. 

“I didn’t want to show it to you yet,” In-ho speaks again, softer. “I waited as long as I could.”

Sang-woo doesn’t answer. Words would make this moment too real.

“They won’t move without you,” In-ho continues. “You know that. Your team is the only one that can sell this to the kind of money they need. You make it make sense. You make it… beautiful, on paper.”

The word beautiful lands like a bruise. Sang-woo’s eyes drift from the folder to the far wall, as if there’s oxygen there that isn’t contaminated. He can still see the diagrams behind his eyelids.

In-ho exhales, the sound careful, contained.

“They believe in your genius.” In-ho adds. “They believe you can package anything for market, even this. They believe you’re the only one who could make people invest without vomiting.”

The silence stretches again. 

“I didn’t want to bring it to you like this,” In-ho says at last “But I didn’t have a choice. I know this is hard.” A pause, longer than necessary. “It’s hard for me too.”

Sang-woo makes a sound - low and strange, as if something snagged in his throat. It might be a laugh. It might be the beginning of a sob. He looks at In-ho like he doesn’t recognize him. Or worse - like he does, perfectly.

“You accepted it.”

In-ho holds his gaze. “If I didn’t, someone else would. And at least this way… we can control how it unfolds. Shape it. Mitigate-”

“Mitigate what?” The words slice out of him, low and serrated. “There’s no version of this that should unfold.”

In-ho steps forward. His voice lowers.

“I know what’s in there, Sang-woo. I read it first. I didn’t sleep for two days. I wanted to burn it.”

A beat.

“But I didn’t. Instead, I kept it and studied it. I thought about what it would look like if it ended up in someone else’s hands. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate. Someone who wouldn’t care.”

Sang-woo looks away.

“I don’t want it to be anyone else,” In-ho says. “I want it to be you.”

A pause.

“I trust your judgment. Even when it falters. I trust your capacity to look at hell and map it. Because you don’t panic. You understand.”

Sang-woo closes his eyes. He hates that it's true. He hates that In-ho knows it.

“You’re going to say yes,” In-ho says quietly. “Even if I have to make you.”

That cuts through the fog. Sang-woo turns and catches In-ho’s gaze, searching for any flicker of hesitation, some sign this is an empty threat.

His voice, when it comes, is lower than he expects, almost hoarse.

“You’d really do that?”

“I’d rather not,” In-ho says. “But I can’t hand this to someone who won’t care what it turns into. Someone who’ll see the numbers, sign off, and never think about the rest. You-” He gestures, vaguely, to the folder. “You hate this. You’ve hated it since the second you opened it. And that’s exactly why it has to be you.”

Sang-woo’s face twists. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” In-ho says. “You’ll find the least destructive path through something that’s already been approved. You can shape it, and I can watch your back, and maybe together we keep this from becoming something even worse.”

His voice is softer now, nearing something like pleading.

“You’re not just brilliant, Sang-woo. You’re… necessary. For this. For these people. For me. If you’re part of it, if your name is on it, it has a chance of being... less monstrous.” In-ho’s voice regathers its force. “So I’ll force the yes if I have to. But I’d rather you give it to me willingly.”

Sang-woo isn’t listening anymore. He’s gone somewhere inside himself, somewhere far away and cold. His eyes are distant, glassy, the way a person looks at a house burning from the inside.

Because the worst part isn’t the folder.

It’s that he understands exactly how he would do it.

He knows how to write the deck. He knows what numbers to lead with. He knows how to veil it in enough euphemisms that no one will notice what’s missing until it’s too late. He knows which investors will bite. Which firms are rotten enough to buy in with a smile. He knows how to dress this thing in words until it sounds like inevitability. He knows how to give horror a human face - and a twenty percent return.

His voice breaks the silence like something cracking under pressure.

“I’ve done a lot of things,” Sang-woo says, his tone hollow. “Things I had to. Things I chose to. But this…”

He doesn’t finish.

In-ho nods, almost apologetic.

“They want an answer in two months,” he says, final and soft as a noose. “And we both know what it has to be.”

Then he leaves Sang-woo with the folder, the silence, and the certainty of a world that always gets what it wants - one way or another.

 

 

 

He doesn’t look at the folder anymore.

It lives in the back of his closet, sealed in an anonymous black case. Sang-woo told himself he was setting it aside temporarily, but a month has nearly passed and the damn thing has grown heavier just by existing. He hasn’t opened it since the day In-ho delivered it. He hasn’t had to. Every page, every diagram, every euphemism is already inside him. But he doesn’t think about it. Not during meetings. Not when he eats. Not when he tries and fails to sleep. He just… doesn’t.

Not until the phone rings.

The number flashes - In-ho’s secure line - and Sang-woo exhales.

He picks it up without looking.

“I haven’t said yes,” Sang-woo mutters. “If that’s what this is, I-”

“That’s not why I’m calling,” In-ho interrupts.

A pause on the other end, long enough to be strange. Then:

“They voted again,” In-ho continue. “The Board. I’m sorry, Sang-woo. They want him in the Games.”

Sang-woo freezes. He says nothing for a long time, just listening to the mechanical breathing at the other end of the line.

He wants to ask, Did you fight for him? Did you vote no? Did you break anything? But all he says is,

“Is there anything left to do?”

A beat. 

“I’ll think of something.” In-ho answers.

Sang-woo hangs up first, as if that will save them both a little dignity.

 

Later that week, he makes a request. 

“Let me in as a Manager. As a Square. I can keep him safe.”

“No,” In-ho says, with that finality that means: I can’t, or I won’t.

“Then let me-”

“I said no, Sang-woo. The Board’s watching me, too. Don’t make this harder.”

There are things he wants to scream, to break, to throw back in In-ho’s face. But he only nods, and the mask of obedience holds.

 

 

The Games begin.

Sang-woo watches from the cold safety of his quarters, surrounded by monitors, hands steepled beneath his mouth, posture still, eyes fixed. 

Seong Gi-hun enters the Red Light, Green Light arena and it feels, absurdly, like a reunion.

His hair is short - cut hastily, as if by someone who wanted to forget themselves. His face thinner now, far too thin, like he’s been running on adrenaline and fury alone. His cheekbones carve shadows on his face where none used to be. 

Nothing of the man Sang-woo once knew remains on the surface. And yet-

He leans in, unable to help himself.

There’s still that look in his eyes. That fierce, impossible belief that he can change the rules by understanding them. That somehow, if he’s clever enough, brave enough, good enough - he’ll beat the house without ever placing a bet.

It’s still him.

Still with that stubbornness, that impossible decency, the fool’s kindness Sang-woo had always wanted to protect and punish in equal measure.

Sang-woo should have known. Of course he would eventually come back. Hope is a sickness Gi-hun never recovered from.

 

Later, the voting begins, and it’s then that Sang-woo sees it:

Player 001.

In-ho, suit discarded, standing among the Players, anonymous and yet so deeply, absurdly visible to him.

What the fuck is he doing?

The camera pans, and something in Sang-woo’s head locks into place with a cold, mechanical click. Not realization exactly.

Recognition.

The kind that bypasses thought and goes straight to the gut. It’s in the curve of In-ho’s mouth, that faint, knowing smirk. To anyone else, it’s nothing. To Sang-woo, it’s a flare in the dark.

He recognizes the set of In-ho’s shoulders, the exact tilt of his head - how he keeps his expression scrubbed clean for the cameras, for the other Players, for the system itself. But not for Sang-woo. Never for him.

He knows.

Oh, he knows.

Years of exposure have not left In-ho untouched.

What began as curiosity sharpened into study, and study has bled into something harder to name - a dangerous proximity.

In-ho has let himself be moved by Gi-hun, reshaped by the very man the system should have broken. And now, he’s playing this game from inside the illusion, sliding into the role of Player just to be near him, to understand him, to maybe...what? Prove him wrong? Or worse, prove him right?

In-ho, the consummate observer, now part of the experiment.

And Gi-hun, who still believes in people like fools believe in rain.

It’s reckless. It’s beneath him. It’s dangerous.

But more than that, it’s-

Unforgivable.

Because Sang-woo hasn’t allowed himself to even think about Gi-hun for years. And now In-ho walks beside him, breathes the same recycled air, sleeps under the same roof under a fake name and smiling.

And the worst part?

Gi-hun eventually smiles back.

 

Jealousy is a childish word. Sang-woo would never dignify it, not even in the privacy of his own mind.

And yet.

He watches from his screen the way In-ho positions himself in the dormitory, just close enough to be within Gi-hun’s orbit, just attentive enough that his silence sounds like listening. The way his questions arrive soft and precise, never careless, always too invested. 

It is worse, somehow, when he sees the way In-ho’s gaze fixes - not on Gi-hun’s eyes, but on his lips, as if he’s trying to learn the shape of each word by heart.

It is a small thing, this focus. But in Sang-woo’s chest, something cold and animal begins to coil, patient and poisonous.

He tells himself he’s angry because In-ho is endangering the operation, tipping the balance by getting too close to the subject.

He tells himself it’s because Gi-hun deserves better than to be prodded and catalogued, dissected for someone else’s intellectual hunger.

And he tells himself it’s about the plan - that this wasn’t in it, that every step they’ve taken has been calculated for stability, and In-ho’s intrusion is a fracture in the structure.

All these justifications are elegant. All of them are lies.

He was the first to know Gi-hun, the only one who knew him before. Before the Games hollowed people out from the inside. Before trust became a liability and hope was something you learned to bury. 

He remembers the warmth in Gi-hun’s voice, the way it called his name across a schoolyard. The simple faith of being looked at - seen fully, accepted without question. The unbearable grace of that gaze.

Now, In-ho moves into the space that once belonged to him. Quietly, efficiently, as only men with too much discipline can. He has launched his own campaign - silent, strategic - to unravel what makes Gi-hun possible.

It is not love, nor even the envy of longing.

It is the muted, heavy grief of watching the man you left behind remain unfinished, still capable of drawing out devotion and being wanted by hands not your own.

And Sang-woo, always the observer, is left outside the experiment - irreducibly alone, haunted by the memory of the one he once held close, and the quiet, damning truth that someone else can still reach him.

It has been only hours since the Soldiers put an end to the Players’ rebellion, and the air still feels taut with the aftershocks.

Sang-woo's halfway to In-ho’s office before he realizes he’s almost running. It’s humiliating, but there’s no one to see him - no one but the Guards, faceless, already trained to ignore the cracks in their superiors. He’s supposed to be above this. He’s supposed to have learned, by now, how to contain the lightning in his chest.

But after what he just heard, he can’t.

He enters without knocking, the door swinging too wide. 

In-ho doesn’t look up right away. He’s seated at his desk, scrolling through a file.

Sang-woo notes the second desk across from In-ho’s.

It wasn’t there yesterday.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t bother raising his voice. In-ho hates displays. It’s the only reason Sang-woo doesn’t scream.

In-ho doesn’t even look up from his computer.

“You’ll need to be more specific.”

Sang-woo’s jaw tightens. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Gi-hun. The cell. The-” He waves a hand in the general direction of one of the screens, where, at this very moment, Gi-hun is curled on the floor, looking about as alive as a faded photograph.

In-ho finally glances at him, face unreadable.

“Would you rather I’d let him play the next Game?”

Sang-woo feels the answer burn through him, immediate, irrational.

“No. Of course not. I also don’t want him in solitary, starving and freezing, being - whatever the hell this is. Was this the plan you promised, your big idea to keep him safe?”

For a moment, silence. Then, finally, In-ho exhales.

“I spoke to the Board. I made it clear that Player 456 was too valuable to die in the Games. The Hosts agreed. The VIPs, too. Even they know a symbol when they see one. So, he’s been set aside.”

Set aside. Like a meal for later.

“I told them that killing him in another Game is predictable. And worse - forgettable. A waste of a symbol."

In-ho lets that sit in the air for a beat.

"But reshaping him? Letting hunger, cold, and silence strip away the man until all that’s left is someone willing to wear the mask… that is entertainment. That is narrative. The hero becomes the face of the Games. The one who fought us becomes one of us. It keeps the audience watching.”

He glances toward the feed of Gi-hun on the screen, then back to Sang-woo.

“When he finally reaches for the power, the mask, no one will forget it. They’ll see a man who wanted to break the system, now defending it. That’s more valuable than his death a hundred times over.”

Sang-woo’s eyes drift to the second desk again, pristine, untouched, already waiting for an occupant. It’s obvious now, painfully so.

He doesn’t bother to mask the bite in his voice.

“Is that your method, In-ho?! Starve him, freeze him, strip him down to nothing, and then offer him a seat at the table? Let the hunger do your work for you?”

In-ho’s gaze follows his for a beat, then returns, calm and unyielding. 

 “People need clarity to see what’s in front of them. Player 456’s no different. He’ll come to understand his new position, eventually.”

Sang-woo hears what isn’t said. Conditioning, compliance, transformation. He’s seen it before - on trading floors, in quarterly projections, in the eyes of men willing to sign away everything for a promise of relief. Break them down far enough, and they’ll buy whatever you’re selling.

“Did you just need another Host? You could have picked anyone. There are people who’d step up. The Officer, for instance.”

In-ho allows himself a faint smirk. “But Player 456’s more interesting, don’t you think? I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”

“You think starving him will make him grateful when you offer him a crown?” he says, voice low.

In-ho’s answer is honest, stripped of any pretense. “I think, eventually, anyone wants a reason to live. It’s easier to reach for something when it feels like the last thing left.”

Sang-woo looks at him, and his voice softens, almost pleading.

“You’re making him into something he’s not. You’re not just testing him, you’re-”

He stops himself. The words come out quieter, edged with something dangerously close to hope.

“He was supposed to leave this behind. That was the point. He was supposed to get out and… live.”

In-ho is silent for a moment, as if considering how much to reveal. His gaze flicks once to the monitor, Gi-hun’s frame curled against the wall, then back to the middle distance. When he finally speaks, the words are soft enough to feel unguarded, though Sang-woo suspects they are anything but.

“I’m making sure he survives. Even if he never forgives me for how I do it.”

The words hang in the air and Sang-woo feels the shape of his own silence closing around him. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself to.

But as the room settles back into silence, he recognizes, with the precision of a man who’s spent his life quantifying losses, the exact source of the unease blooming in his chest.

It isn’t only what In-ho is doing to Gi-hun.

It’s the way he says it, soft and certain, with a kind of unflinching devotion Sang-woo has never managed to voice for anyone, least of all to the man on that screen.

And somehow, that quiet truth cuts deeper than the plan, the desk, or even the mask waiting to be worn.

 

 

They were handpicked. Every one of them. Not by Sang-woo - he had no such authority, not even now - but by In-ho and Il-nam before him. Extracted from every corner of the world to form a single, impossibly powerful organism: the Financial Oversight Team.

The ones who sit above the national branches. Who approve, deny, dismantle, and rebuild with a gesture. The ones who don’t run the Games but make it profitable. Sustainable. Invisible.

They speak in English, the only language shared by all of them, their accents weaving a strange, neutral cadence that belongs to no single place.

They were brought here to Korea to be led by him. 

And today, they are wasting his time.

Nine chairs. Eight filled. Edmond, the Frenchman, is late - again. Not that it matters. Nothing matters. Not really. Not when-

(He hasn’t seen Gi-hun eat once - not even water. Not one tray, not one cup, nothing through that door.)

“You’re telling me,” Lukas says, in that clipped, mildly disbelieving tone only a Swede could make sound both polite and condemning, “the shell company in Bogotá unraveled two months ago and they still haven’t patched it?”

(He’s still shaking, isn’t he? He must be. That cell… how cold must it be? Does anyone even check if he’s breathing at night?)

There’s a snort from Zhen, the team’s analyst from Beijing. “It hasn’t been months. Six weeks, maybe seven. They tried to reroute through Ecuador, but customs caught the paperwork. Not exactly subtle.”

( He just wants to leave. Back to that corner of In-ho’s office where the screen is always glowing. Where Gi-hun is. Where the silence isn’t filled with this, this noise, this greed. Just the quiet clicking of the screen. The stillness of a man falling apart.)

Adewale, who grew up managing risk in Lagos, runs a hand over his close-cropped hair, shaking his head. “So now the Colombians are drawing heat from local police? Remind me what the financial team there actually does, besides cause us trouble?”

(He’s been in In-ho’s office twice a day for the last forty-eight hours. Just to watch. Just to see. Just to make sure Gi-hun is still breathing.)

“They’re supposed to keep this kind of mess from reaching us. But they keep failing,” says Jong-seok.

“They’re not just failing,” Emília, from Minas Gerais, says dryly. “If you had to bribe every public official between Bogotá and the border, you’d crack too. They’re running all their money through fake construction companies, and some intern at the mayor’s office probably noticed.”

(Sang-woo hasn’t slept in thirty-nine hours. He lies in bed and hears Gi-hun breathing, even when he’s not watching the feed. The whimpering. The broken sobs. Fingernails dragging over white walls that do not echo back.)

Nikolai, the Russian, and youngest by far, bright-eyed and always a beat behind the others, pipes up from where he’s been nervously taking notes. “But… didn’t we train them? Don’t we have protocols for this?”

Lukas laughs, not unkind. “Sometimes the protocol is just who pays more.”

(He’s tried bargaining for a blanket - denied. A meal - ignored. Just a mattress – desmissed. That thing Gi-hun sleeps on is thinner than air. It dips in the middle. You can see it when he moves.)

Eun-seo - impeccably dressed, silver hair pulled back, the only other Korean besides Sang-woo and Jong-seok - folds her hands. “It’s embarrassing, really. These are basic shells, they’ve done this a dozen times. Maybe they’re too comfortable.”

“And half the time, they still get caught,” Lukas mutters, lips twisting.

(And that shoulder wound. Infection comes fast in damp places. He should demand antibiotics. Next time he sees In-ho, he’ll - no, he’ll beg. He’ll fucking beg.)

“There’s a journalist poking around now,” Zhen says, taping her screen. “Laura Morales. She’s already posted three articles. One of them had the company’s real registration number. It’s all over the public record.”

Nikolai blinks. “Wait, she got the actual name out there? How?”

“Either she’s lucky or someone’s feeding her,” Lin Yue, from Singapore, comments from the end of the table.

(He wants to ask for the light to be turned off, just once, so Gi-hun can sleep. The light never goes off, not for a minute. He thinks he’ll go mad, just watching it.)

“They’ll try to buy her off,” Zhen says with a sigh, as if she’s already watched it play out a hundred times.

Emília shakes her head, not even glancing away from her screen. “Won’t work. She’s young. Still thinks journalism can save the world.”

(He wonders if Gi-hun still believes anyone is coming to help him. If he’s stopped hoping.)

“Then she’s a liability,” Jeo-seok says. “We’ve dealt with this before.”

Nikolai swallows. “You mean… what, exactly?”

Eun-seo shrugs, tone light, as if she’s talking about rain. “We make her disappear.”

“Wait, you’re serious?” Nikolai asks, incredulous.

Eun-seo finally lifts her gaze, unblinking. “Of course I am. We did it here in Korea, two years ago. You remember, right, Sang-woo?  That 2022 winner?”

(He needs to go. He needs to leave. Gi-hun is in that cell and he is alone and broken and shaking and starving and he is going to die, and Sang-woo will have spent this moment talking about shell companies.)

“Sang-woo?” Eun-seo asks again.

He looks up, startled, like he’s surfaced from a dream.

“Sorry…” he mutters, voice low and dry. “What?”

His eyes flick from face to face, disoriented, like he’s just realized where he is. The room stares back, expectant, slightly amused.

He tries to grasp it. Something about a winner. A journalist. Korea.

(He left Gi-hun alone for this. For this.)

His mouth opens, then closes. No words come.

Eun-seo narrows her eyes, her expression shifting just slightly. She doesn’t repeat herself. Instead, she continues as if the lapse never happened.

“Anyway,” she says, turning her attention back to the room, “she went straight to the police after winning the Games. They were instructed to look the other way. Standard protocol.”

Adewale exhales through his nose. “Which they did, I assume.”

Eun-seo nods. “They sat on their hands like trained dogs. So she hired a private investigator. Started talking to a journalist. And made noise - real noise. You know what the Leader did?”

Nikolai shakes his head, face pale.

Eun-seo’s mouth barely moves. “He sent Soldiers. They took her from her apartment, middle of the night, and drove her to an abandoned building outside Seoul. And the Leader himself walked in and spoke to her. Face to face.”

The table is quiet, tense.

“He told her she had one chance. Told her if she didn’t shut up, her whole family would end up in the Games. Her husband. Her eighteen-year-old son. Her elderly parents. One by one.”

A beat.

“She got the message.”

“And the others?” Nikolai asks.

(The monitors. The feed. The way Gi-hun pressed his palm to the wall last night, as if searching for warmth, for anything, for rescue. The way he folded in on himself, clutching at nothing, no one, again and again.)

“The PI’s body turned up in a river outside Busan two weeks later and the reporter vanished on a flight to Hong Kong. No trace.”

“Official cause? ‘Heart attack,’ of course.” Jong-seok finishes.

Nikolai mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

Adewale laughs, a sound with no warmth. “Welcome to the table, rookie.” 

“Consider it onboarding.” Lin Yue chuckles. “They didn’t warn you, Kolya?”

Lukas grins. “Maybe they thought he’d quit before the first coffee break.”

Even Emília cracks a tired smile. “He’s not the first to be shocked. He won’t be the last.”

Then, as if someone pressed resume, they slide back into the Bogotá problem. Lin Yue mentions customs again. Zhen brings up new bribe allocations. Someone suggests cutting ties entirely.

But Sang-woo hears none of it.

Adewale says something. Zhen replies. Someone laughs again. Maybe Lukas.

Sang-woo wants to scream.

“Boss,” Adewale says suddenly, voice cutting clean through the fog.

Sang-woo’s eyes flick up, blinking, like someone just turned the lights on.

“Boss, what’s your call?”

Call?

What?

Zhen’s smirking. Nikolai’s whispering something to Lukas. Emília’s watching him, frowning - not disrespectful, but curious. Studying the delay.

“Regarding the journalist,” Adewale says slowly. “Do we act? Or do we wait?”

(Just get up. Leave. Go back to the monitors.)

“Have the local team handle it,” Sang-woo says, too quickly. “It’s their mess.”

A pause.

Zhen’s brow arches. “Even though-”

And then the door swings open.

Edmond walks in like the room’s been waiting for him to arrive - which, in fairness, it has. He straightens the cuff of his suit jacket, unbothered. “Please, don’t get up.”

“We wouldn’t,” Eun-seo says without looking at him.

“You’re late,” Sang-woo says, voice level, cold. He doesn’t look up from the black shine of the table, but it slices all the same. The others smirk into their screens, grateful for the slight shift in atmosphere - a new target.

Edmond smiles, easy, infuriating. “Apologies, mon ami. The corridors were chaos – Managers and Soldiers running everywhere. Apparently, there’s a situation outside. Something about uninvited guests reaching the island. I got held up by curiosity.”

Adewale folds his arms, eyes bright with mischief. “Or you just got caught gossiping with the Workers again.”

Edmond shrugs, all theatrical innocence. “Can you blame me? They know all the good secrets.”

Zhen rolls her eyes, tapping her pen against the table. “So what’s the story, then? It’s not every day we get ‘guests.’”

Adewale leans forward slightly. “We should check the surveillance.”

Sang-woo’s voice is flat. “No.”

Zhen raises a brow. “Why not?”

“There’s a protocol-”

“Oh, fuck protocol,” Lukas says, already swiping open the table’s embedded console. “If someone breached the island, I’d like to know before I’m on a raft back to Stockholm.”

“No,” Sang-woo says, firmer this time.

Emília leans in, her eyes on Sang-woo, cool and amused. “Look, we’re not getting anywhere with Bogotá. We might as well see what all the fuss is about. Otherwise, nobody’s focusing.”

Lin Yue glances up, voice mild. “It’s probably nothing, but it could be serious. Shouldn’t we at least check, boss?”

Nikolai, nervous, glances around. “Can we even see the live feeds? Isn’t that restricted?”

Jong-seok’s already moving. “We’re the oversight team, Kolya. If we can’t see, nobody can.” His hands fly over the keyboard set into the table, logging into the island’s security matrix.

Nikolai fidgets, biting his lip. “Do you really think it could be… outsiders?”

Eun-seo’s mouth twists. “Or it’s just a boat full of VIPs who got the wrong date.”

Adewale’s voice is pitched low and serious. “Or it’s a threat.”

Sang-woo’s jaw tightens. He exhales, slow and resigned, realizing he’s lost the room. “Fine. Five minutes. Then we get back to work.”

“Pull up the perimeter cameras,” Lukas says, leaning in.

Jong-seok cycles through feeds: first, interior corridors. Then the storage bay, empty but for a few crates and a trio of bored guards.

“Nothing, nothing… nothing,” Lukas mutters, impatient, as footage flickers past. “Come on. Where’s the action?”

“Try the docks,” Edmond suggests, squinting at one feed. “That’s where everyone seemed to be heading.”

Jong-seok nods, fingers moving to switch the camera feeds. “Hang on, hang on… That’s the helipad - empty. Here’s the north fence.... Nothing but trees.”

But then-

“There!” Nikolai nearly jumps from his chair, pointing at the screen.

They all lean in.

One of the exterior feeds - angled from above, probably mounted to a floodlight - shows movement near the docks. A motorboat is moored beside the wooden platform, still rocking from arrival. Around it, six armed Soldiers form a ring, rifles raised, unmoving.

In the center, there are three men. Dark clothes, hands in the air. Their weapons lie discarded at their feet.

“Shit,” Emília mutters. “Who the hell are they?”

“I told you,” Edmond says, as if delighted to be vindicated. “Uninvited guests.”

“Play the audio,” Nikolai says quickly.

“There is no audio,” Jong-seok mutters. “Security feed. Visual only.”

Sang-woo narrows his eyes, leaning in slightly.

The tallest of the three is unmistakably military: his build, the way he sets his jaw, the way his chin doesn’t tremble. Next to him stands a civilian, maybe late thirties - just a man in the wrong place, whose face is already crumpling with terror. The third is younger, maybe late twenties, maybe early thirties, his eyes locked not on the Soldiers but on the approaching shadow.

In-ho steps into frame in full uniform, flanked by two Managers. The Soldiers part for him without command. He walks past them slowly, deliberately, as if time bends to his convenience.

“Is that the Leader?” Nikolai whispers.

Sang-woo says nothing. His jaw clenches.

In-ho moves first to the civilian, studies him as if inspecting a bug under glass. He gestures. A brief question? The man shakes his head, mouth working frantically, pleading, but In-ho dismisses him without even a tilt of his mask.

Next, the soldier - his stare locked, defiant, every muscle rigid. There’s a long pause, an unspoken question. The soldier barely responds, chin lifting in some final show of pride. The Leader holds his gaze a little too long, as if memorizing him for later.

And then: the young man.

He’s already tense, but when In-ho turns to him, he straightens almost involuntarily. They’re similar in height. They stop just inches apart, their silhouettes nearly mirroring one another under the wash of floodlight. The young man’s hands are still raised, but his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to drop.

In-ho’s hand lifts, palm open, then closes into a fist at chest level. Something declarative. Final.

The young man’s entire expression changes. His gaze drops. Just like that. Whatever was said, it hits like a stone. His jaw slackens. His shoulders curve inwards.

“What did he say?” Nikolai whispers.

No one answers.

Then In-ho speaks again - more gestures now, one arm extended briefly toward the other two men, then pointedly at the young man himself. There’s a clarity to it: you, and them. Something is being decided. No - already decided.

The young man’s head jerks up. Alarm floods his face.

He glances back - at the soldier, at the civilian - and his mouth opens, a wordless exhale, panic sharpening every line of him. He says something urgently. A question maybe. Or a plea.

He takes a step forward, arms still raised. But his hands twitch again, one arm bending slightly at the elbow, his fingers curling.

The civilian is crying behind him, visibly shaking. The soldier stays stoic, but even he cuts his eyes toward the younger man.

“He’s trying to protect them,” Emília murmurs.

Adewale leans forward, squinting at the screen. “Or bargain.”

In-ho doesn’t move. The only sign of life is his fingers curling at his side - once, then still again.

“What’s the point of this?” Zhen mutters. “Just shoot or don’t.”

“They’re trying to get information,” Lukas says, tone clipped. “Or trying to make a point.”

“It’s cruel,” Nikolai says. “Why not just-?”

But then it’s over.

A single flick of In-ho’s fingers, and the two Managers step forward in perfect synchronicity. There’s no hesitation.

Two bullets.

One to the soldier. One to the civilian.

Both bodies fall at once.

“Holy shit,” Edmond whispers.

The young man screams. No sound reaches the conference room, but his body jerks, mouth open, face twisted. He runs forward, but the Soldiers move too fast. They grab him, pull him back. He thrashes, but his eyes never leave In-ho.

In-ho walks away without a glance back.

But the young man breaks free - only for an instant, desperation lending him inhuman strength. He surges up, latches onto In-ho’s wrist. The gesture is so raw, so intimate in its despair and fury, that the conference room itself seems to tense in surprise. The young man’s eyes are wide, brimming with tears; his lips move in a furious stream of silent pleas, curses, or both.

For a second, In-ho’s shoulders stiffen. He allows the contact - one brief, almost-human hesitation - then forcibly peels the young man’s fingers away.

“Jesus,” Nikolai mutters, voice tight.

The Soldiers wrench the young man away, four hands yanking him back, but he doesn’t resist anymore. He just stares at In-ho, gaze desperate, as if trying to see through the mask, to burn a hole through it and reach the man - or the monster - beneath.

Then a rifle slams into his temple and he crumples without a sound. The Soldiers seize him, limp and half-conscious, and drag him across the dock, boots scraping, head lolling, feet leaving streaks in the blood-slick wood.

The boat awaits. The Soldiers toss him in with no care, climbing in after, one manning the engine, the other keeping his rifle pointed downward. The boat pulls away, carving a white wake in the dark water, shrinking to a speck as it vanishes into the night.

The dock is red. Soldiers have begun moving toward the corpses, dragging them out of frame. The civilian leaves a streak behind - wet and dark, glistening under the floodlights. The soldier’s limbs drag stiffly, catching on the cracks in the planks. One boot falls off.

In-ho, already fading into shadow, leaves the dock as if nothing has happened at all.

No one in the conference room breathes. For a moment, time seems suspended, as if the world outside those screens has ceased to exist.

Zhen leans back, exhales hard through her nose. “Back to Bogotá, then?” she mutters.

But the blood is still on the wood, and no one - least of all Sang-woo - can look away.

 

One hour later, the meeting is over.

Chairs scrape. Tablets snap shut. There's the soft murmur of goodbyes - half-hearted, distracted - and the rustle of polished shoes against the tile. One by one, the members of the Financial Oversight Team file out. Edmond leaves last, throwing Sang-woo a little mock salute. He doesn't return it.

Only Emília stays.

She lingers by the door, watching him with mild curiosity as he doesn’t move from his place at the head of the table. When he finally speaks, it’s without looking up.

“Stay a minute.”

She closes the door behind her and crosses her arms, one eyebrow lifted. “Should I be worried?”

He shakes his head once. “No.”

“Then should I sit, or…?”

“Whatever you want.”

She takes a seat, casual, crossing her arms over the backrest, twisting to face him with open expectation. “So, what’s this about? More mess in South America, or are you finally promoting me?”

He almost laughs at that - almost. Instead, he stares at the blank tabletop, the memory of blood on the docks painting everything a dull red.

He clears his throat, finds his voice. “Do you remember the young man on the dock?”

“The one who grabbed the Leader?” she asks. “Yeah. Not something you forget easily.”

Silence.

She watches him, waiting. Then, gently: “What about him?”

Sang-woo finally moves, just slightly - one hand drifting up to press against his temple, as if his thoughts are splintering under the weight.

“I need to know what was said between them,” he murmurs. “What happened. Why the Leader let him live.”

She tilts her head. “The audio’s off, remember?”

“I know.”

“You want me to guess body language?”

“No.” He finally glances at her. His eyes are rimmed with red, sunken with exhaustion, but startlingly clear. “I want you to ask.”

Emília blinks. “Ask who?”

“The Soldiers who were on the dock. Or the Managers. Anyone who was close enough to hear.”

She snorts lightly. “You think they’ll just tell me?”

“I think… you’ll find one who will. There’s always someone willing, if the price is right.”

She lets out a low, rueful chuckle. “And if I do find out? If I get someone to talk, then what?”

“Then I need you to go further,” he says, lowering his voice even more, barely above a whisper. “If you find out who the man is, I want you to go to the city. Discreetly. See what you can find. I can’t leave the island. Not now. It would draw too much attention.”

Emília leans back, crossing her arms, gaze sharp but not unkind. “You’re really pulling out all the stops, huh? That desperate?”

She studies him, a frown creasing her brow.

“You look like hell, Sang-woo. Worse than usual. Are you… okay?” 

He glances away, jaw working. He wants to say: I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t breathed without guilt. I spend my nights begging for scraps of comfort for a man locked in a box like a stray animal.  I’m rotting from the inside out, and no one sees it. I hate the man I’ve become. I hate In-ho - God, I hate him. I hate his mask, his orders, his stillness, his voice. I hate that he made me choose this. 

But he just shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“If you need help-” she begins.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, voice rough. “Just do this for me, Emília. Please. Use whatever resources you need. Pay whoever you need to pay. If you need to pull in a Soldier or two, do it. Find someone who was on the dock. Someone who’ll talk. I’ll authorize a bonus. I’ll have the Leader double your salary, if that’s what it takes. But I need the truth.”

She gives a half-smile, mock-serious. “You’ll make me rich yet, Auditor. Should I start sending you invoices directly?”

He almost smiles back. “If only. I don’t make a cent in this place, you know. I’m here for the privilege of breathing. Everyone else gets paid. Not me.”

She studies him a moment longer, her joking softened now by real understanding.

“I’ll get it done,” she says at last, her voice steady. “And I’ll be careful.”

He nods, slow and tired, finally allowing himself to rest his forehead on the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

She stands, one hand on the door. “You ever going to sleep, or is this your new look?”

He doesn’t answer - just lifts a hand in lazy dismissal. She lingers at the threshold a second longer than necessary. When she speaks again, her voice is low, no trace of the earlier teasing.

“Whatever this is, Sang-woo - don’t let it eat you alive, okay?”

Sang-woo closes his eyes. He hears her quiet sigh and then the soft sound of her footsteps retreating down the corridor.

Then, inevitably, the thought arrives.

In-ho had rules. No past lives. No names. No history. A doctrine built on the fantasy that forgetting is the same as erasing.

But Sang-woo never believed in that. The past doesn’t disappear. It waits. It rewrites itself behind closed doors. It builds pressure, steadies its aim, and chooses its moment.

And he’s always trusted the architecture of cause and effect. The inevitability of systems, of patterns. A week after Gi-hun returns to the Games, three men arrive.

Coincidence? He scoffs, quietly, to himself. Please

Sang-woo knows Gi-hun built a team quietly, methodically, over these past two years. But the man on the dock wasn’t just a soldier. He wasn’t just a piece on Gi-hun’s board.

No, he was history. Not Gi-hun’s.

In-ho’s.

Of course he was.

Somehow, the man knew. He knew exactly who stood behind the mask, even without seeing his face.

And isn’t that exquisite? It’s never the future that ruins men like In-ho - it’s the past. And for all his laws, his tidy fiction of a life with no before, only the present - what good did it do him?

What good is silence when memory walks up the dock and grabs your wrist?

That young man - he didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask for his life. He demanded something. Recognition, perhaps.

He belonged to In-ho first. Or maybe - it’s so much more elegant this way - maybe In-ho belonged to him.

Oh, In-ho. You always said the past was dead. That names should not live beyond our masks.

But the sea brought you one, didn’t it? And it looked like someone you tried very hard to forget.

Sang-woo watches. He watches the fragments - the neat lines of probability unraveling beneath the weight of that moment. Gi-hun, In-ho, and now this man, whose presence might unmake the Leader himself.

Gi-hun’s war collides - impossibly, inevitably - with the one thing In-ho spent a lifetime trying to bury.

The universe doesn’t care for justice.

But God, does it love a perfect circle.

 

 

It’s been two days since he asked Emília to look into it. Still no word. The silence unsettles him more than any answer would.

Now, with nothing but silence behind him and dread ahead, Sang-woo stands in In-ho’s office, arms folded, forcing himself to watch as Gi-hun trembles in his cell, his shoulders jerking in soundless sobs.

In-ho stands a few feet away, studying a sheaf of reports.

“Don’t worry.” He says at last, breaking the silence. “We’ve started feeding him.”

Sang-woo doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Feeding him,” he echoes. “With what?”

“Bread. Water.”

“He’ll deteriorate at this rate,” Sang-woo says, voice clipped.

“That’s the point,” In-ho replies. “He needs to be weakened before he can be-” a small pause, deliberate “-receptive.”

As if to prove his point, the cell door hisses open and a Worker enters. The Guard tosses the bread on the ground, and then, with a careless flick of his wrist, he tips the cup so water splashes out - not into Gi-hun’s hands, not even near him, but across the floor, spreading toward the bread. The bread darkens, begins to disintegrate.

Gi-hun shifts forward on his hands and knees, slow, like every joint protests the motion. A faint, involuntary sound escapes him - half breath, half wince - as his palm slips on the wet floor. The Worker watches for a beat, then lets out a short, clipped laugh. When Gi-hun reaches for the bread, the Guard drives a boot under his chin, sharp and sudden. Gi-hun crumples back, gasping, his hand instinctively going to his jaw.

The Guard leaves without a word, the door hissing shut.

On the monitor, Gi-hun lies still for a moment, then pulls himself up slowly, shakily, to gather what’s left of the food. He doesn’t cry. He just eats, silent, shoulders hunched.

Sang-woo straightens, his voice colder than he intends.

“Who told them to do it like that?”

“No one specifically,” In-ho says mildly, turning another page. “They’re told to act effectively. Interpretation is their own.”

Sang-woo’s lips thin to a harsh line. "I fail to see how brutalizing him will make him cooperate."

In-ho sets his papers down with deliberate care, studying Sang-woo carefully. "We both know better. Pressure breeds compliance."

"This isn’t just pressure. It’s petty cruelty."

"It’s methodical," In-ho corrects calmly. "Degradation builds dependency. You know that. You’ve seen it work."

Sang-woo finally turns to face him, arms crossed like armor. “That’s the theory. But I’ve also seen it fail, especially with someone like him.”

"Someone like him?" In-ho’s tone is delicately probing.

“Stubborn,” Sang-woo says, searching for the right words, “almost pathologically. He’ll fight every step, even if it means destroying himself. You can starve him, isolate him, but he doesn’t know how to yield. He’ll die before he lets himself beg.”

In-ho seems genuinely intrigued by that. “You sound almost…admiring.”

Sang-woo forces a small, humorless laugh. “It’s just the truth.”

Another silence. Sang-woo glances at the monitors and sees Gi-hun still hunched, shoving crumbs into his mouth with shaking hands.

He shakes his head. “Switch the Workers. Bring in someone who isn’t interested in making this a spectacle, staff who understand boundaries. Limit their time with him. You control everything here, In-ho. You can control this.”

In-ho watches him, considering. “What if none of them are up to your standards?”

Sang-woo hesitates. The silence between them is thick. He tries to focus on logic - on anything but the sick feeling in his gut.

“Then use remote delivery,” Sang-woo says. “More cameras, automated meals. Strip away the human element if the only human element you can provide is cruelty.”

In-ho’s mouth curves - not quite a smile. “That isn’t how it works. He needs the unpredictability. The hint of hope, the risk of more. Otherwise, he goes numb. Or worse, he resists out of habit.”

Sang-woo stares at him, a strange mix of disbelief and frustration building in his chest. “Since when,” he asks slowly, “do you make irrational choices? Where did this come from, In-ho? This… fixation. Is this just another one of your experiments, like that little performance you-”

He stops himself. A beat passes before Sang-woo looks away again.

Gi-hun shifts on the screen, shivering, his breath fogging faintly in the cold.

Sang-woo’s eyes track him briefly - then snap back to In-ho.

“I watched you, you know.” He says, quieter now. “During the Games.”

In-ho’s brows lift, slightly. “Oh?”

“On the cameras. You, playing the part of the Player, mingling with the others. With him.” Sang-woo’s voice hardens. “‘Young-il.’ Nice alias, by the way. Very subtle. Tell me, was that rational? Was any of it?”

In-ho blinks. “It was necessary. Integration, trust, observation-”

“Don’t insult me,” Sang-woo snaps, finally letting himself speak the accusation he’d been holding in for days. “I saw you, In-ho. You wasted no time - you went right to him. Sat with him. Spoke softly, softer than you do to anyone. You made yourself someone he could hold onto. I saw how you looked at him, how you let him…cling to you. And you enjoyed it, didn’t you? You took pleasure in his naiveté, in watching him look at you like you were safe. Don’t deny it.”

In-ho’s brows knit, more curious than defensive. “You’re angry.”

“I’m angry because you’re obsessed,” Sang-woo spits. “Because you’ve broken your own rules, time and again, just to toy with him. To study him. To understand him. And for what? For some thrill? Some sick fascination?” He steps in closer, his voice a harsh whisper. “You’ve been circling him like a vulture since day one, and you don’t even bother pretending it’s for the Board anymore.”

In-ho leans back against his desk, gaze steady. “And you,” he says softly, “sound… territorial.”

The word lands like a slap. Sang-woo’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

“You do,” In-ho murmurs, the faintest thread of mockery in his tone. “Every argument, every late-night hour you plant yourself here watching him on these screens… You say it’s about control. About protecting him. But you can’t stand it, can you? That he ever needed someone who wasn’t you.”

Sang-woo laughs, but it sounds brittle. “Listen to yourself. You’re behaving like a child, In-ho. This is pointless.”

“Then why can’t you walk away?” In-ho asks, almost kindly. Why do you keep coming back here, night after night? What is it you actually want, Sang-woo?”

Sang-woo looks away, heat rising unbidden to his face. On the screen, Gi-hun’s head tips against the wall, exhaustion dragging him under. His fingers twitch, almost unconsciously, as if reaching for something.

The silence between them is thick. Sang-woo exhales, voice low, controlled only by force.

“I respected you, you know.” He says, voice low. “I respected the way you ran this. How you kept the Games… above all of us. Ugly, yes, but clean. Necessary. I thought we understood each other. I thought… I thought we were alike. I even-” his voice falters, just for a moment, “-considered you a friend.”

His gaze snaps back to In-ho, sharp and cold.

“And now you’ve let this obsession drag you into the dirt. You tell yourself it’s about purpose, but it isn’t. You can lie to the Board, to me, to yourself all you like - but you didn’t do this just for them.”

Sang-woo’s voice sharpens. “You’ve been… indulging yourself. You did it because you wanted him. To watch him. To understand him. To break him apart and see what pieces remain. Don’t bother pretending otherwise.”

In-ho’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t deny it. “And if I did?”

“Then you’re not the man I respected,” Sang-woo says coldly. “And you sure as hell shouldn’t be the one deciding when he’s touched, fed, comforted.”

In-ho’s gaze lingers, quiet and sharp. “And you’re not entirely honest, either. If someone has to go to him, who do you trust?

There’s a long pause. Sang-woo opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s visibly shaking. “I-” He can’t say it.

In-ho gets up and steps closer, almost tenderly. “Come on, Sang-woo. Say it. You’re circling the one thing you refuse to name.”

Sang-woo exhales, glances at the screen one more time. Gi-hun stirs, his breath shallow, his body slack with fatigue. His fingers twitch again.

Finally, he breaks. The words tumble out, rough and broken:

“I want to go there. As a Worker,” Sang-woo says, his voice a quiet fracture “If someone has to, it should be someone who won’t… treat him like a spectacle.”

In-ho’s head tilts, almost amused. “You think that won’t defeat the purpose?”

“I think you’ve dragged this far enough. I think you want him broken, but not so broken he stops being interesting. And I’m done watching you dissect him from behind a screen.”

In-ho watches him closely. “And you’re certain he wouldn’t recognize you? Weren’t you the one who insisted he believe you died? How long before your voice, your posture gives you away?”

Sang-woo’s voice is cold, measured. "I can blend in. A uniform and mask ensure anonymity. He'd never know."

In-ho studies him carefully, eyes sharp. "You underestimate him...or perhaps overestimate your self-control. Do you truly believe you could stand inches from him, hear his voice, watch him unravel, and remain detached?”

"I could do my job," Sang-woo insists tightly, irritation beginning to fracture his composure. "Unlike your Workers, I understand restraint."

"Restraint?" In-ho’s voice is coolly amused. "Or is it closeness you’re craving beneath that mask of restraint?"

Sang-woo says nothing. He doesn't have to.

Because In-ho is already laughing - low, soft, edged with recognition. A worn sound that says: You’ve finally arrived where I always knew you would.

“Oh, Sang-woo…” In-ho exhales, like the name itself is tired. “You are a paradox.”

He doesn’t even look at him when he says it - just keeps his gaze on the glow of the monitors, where Gi-hun’s figure shifts slowly, curled into himself.

“You want closeness,” In-ho murmurs, “but can’t bear to be seen. You want to help him, but you'll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the thing that’s tearing him apart. You want to be kind, but only if your kindness wears a mask.”

He turns then, finally, looking at Sang-woo like he's something fragile on the edge of fracturing.

“You said staying away was for his sake. That absence was cleaner. That the version of you who survived the Games wasn’t someone he should ever meet. You told me he deserved to mourn someone… better.”

A pause.

“Those were your words, Sang-woo. Not mine.”

Sang-woo’s fingers tighten against the desk, but his face is still.

“And now you ask,” In-ho says quietly, “to be allowed back into the room. Not as yourself, no. As a Worker. Anonymous. Silent. Safe.” He cocks his head. “But it’s not about him, is it?”

Silence.

Sang-woo has always thought of himself as someone built for separation. He likes the idea of rooms - orderly, quiet, each emotion shelved and numbered, everything in its place. It’s how he’s survived this long. You keep the world out. You name the thing, you box it, you file it away.

But walls aren’t made to last. They settle, crack, grow cold. Some days, he feels like the only thing keeping him together is the discipline of locking every door behind him.

And some ghosts just slip through, no matter how you lock the doors.

Gi-hun, especially. He’s not an intruder. He’s just there, persistent, the memory of laughter in an empty room, the warmth that lingers on the other side of a closed door. Gi-hun is the reason the house feels haunted. The flaw in every plan. The reason no method works forever.

It’s not a thought Sang-woo chooses. It just arrives, and he lets it settle, familiar as a draft.

In-ho sees it, too.

“It’s about you.” In-ho concludes.

Sang-woo stares at the corner of the desk, not at In-ho. His thoughts stutter, unspooling into the same sequence he always reaches for:

Compartmentalize. Name the thing. Lock it up. That’s the method. That’s how you keep breathing in places like this.

But what if the rooms aren’t airtight? What if everything leaks, eventually?

“I brought him back to this island,” In-ho says, voice stripped of pretense. “And the moment you saw him again, you wanted something from it. Call it control, call it redemption. Call it whatever it is you tell yourself so you can sleep at night. But I know you, Sang-woo. I know longing when I see it.”

There’s no accusation in it, just exhaustion.

“No.” In-ho says, like it’s the end of the conversation. “No. If you go in, you break the pattern. He’s not supposed to get comfort. You go in, and he’ll find you - even if he doesn’t know it’s you. He’ll hold on, and we lose everything we built.”

For a moment, the refusal hangs in the air - final, immovable, the rule at the center of all this carefully maintained order. 

But Sang-woo understands In-ho better than almost anyone, maybe even better than he understands himself.

He knows where the rules are brittle, where necessity will always take precedence over sentiment, where In-ho will draw a hard line and where he’ll yield - if the right need presents itself. Pleading won’t move him. Arguments won’t matter.

But urgency - true, undeniable urgency - has always been the only language they both understand.

He feels the familiar cold calculation slide into place, but there’s nothing triumphant about it. It’s just self-preservation, the same instinct that’s kept him alive here, and ruined every chance he’s ever had at something like love.

So he lets the silence spread, heavy and certain. He waits until it fills every corner, every crack in the walls.

Then, when there is nowhere left for the moment to go, he says it:

“In-ho.”

He lets the name hang, a quiet signal in a house about to collapse.

“That project. The Board’s. The one that can’t move forward without my signature.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Both of them know which project. Both of them know what it costs.

He keeps his gaze low, not quite meeting In-ho’s eyes, as if looking would mean surrender.

“I’ll do it. I’ll sign. I’ll make it real. But assign me to his cell as a Worker. I want nothing else.”

He feels the weight of it - the surrender, the self-betrayal, the inevitability.

In-ho, he knows, never wanted to force him. That’s why he waited, why he left the file on the desk instead of pressing it into his hands. In-ho prefers his hands clean, his orders unspoken. He wants Sang-woo to choose it, if you can call this choosing.

So Sang-woo gives him what he wants: consent, shaped to look like control.

He makes himself the architect of his own downfall, because at least then, the ruin has his fingerprints.

He waits.

And waits.

In-ho doesn’t move. He stares straight ahead, into the flickering screens, but his hands have gone still.

That’s how Sang-woo knows he’s shaken.

Finally, In-ho speaks, and his voice is almost gentle.

“If I say yes… you know what you’re asking for, don’t you?”

A beat.

“You won’t be special, Sang-woo. You’ll be a Worker. No privileges. No rank. You’ll follow their rules. You’ll sleep where they sleep, eat what they eat, answer to everyone - me included. You so much as hint that you’re different, and the word spreads. And when word spreads, it gets to him.”

Sang-woo nods, just once, slow and final.

“I know.”

A pause.

“And if Player 456 even suspects… everything we’ve built is destroyed. You break the pattern, there’s no pulling it back. Do you understand me?”

Sang-woo’s nod is small but absolute. “I understand.”

In-ho studies him for a long moment, as if searching for the crack, the hesitation, the sign that Sang-woo will flinch before he actually signs the ruin into being. But Sang-woo holds still. He has practice at stillness.

This is what it means to choose, Sang-woo thinks - to lay yourself on the altar and pretend it’s a negotiation. To offer up your own damnation, just for the briefest proximity to something you lost a lifetime ago.

He knows exactly what he is: a man willing to bring hell to strangers, as long as it brings him one step closer to the only ghost he can’t let go.

If he must engineer suffering, at least let him know why.

If he must help build the machine, at least let his hands be steady.

And if there’s a sin at the center of all this, let it be this: that his own need outweighs every other life.

 

 

 

The Worker’s quarters are smaller than they looked when the door first closed behind him. Four steps long, two and a half wide - he’d measured it out the first evening, counting them back and forth in the dark, as if quantifying his world would render it less claustrophobic. It hasn’t. After a week, every wall feels closer, the air denser, the mattress stiffer.

On the makeshift desk sits the small laptop, the screen black, and the latest set of files In-ho delivered himself four days ago.

He told Sang-woo to begin analysis immediately. He obeyed up to a point - he’d opened the laptop, entered the password, even pulled up the new folder. Then he’d just sat there, hands hovering above the keys, staring at the blank cursor until the back of his neck went numb.

He hasn’t opened it since.

He sits on the cot with his back bent, his shoulders drawn in as if the room itself is closing on him. He’s still in the pink suit, the fabric a little limp from hours of wear, but he hasn’t bothered to change.

The gloves are still on. Gi-hun’s blood coats most of it. Some of it is his own - his knuckles had split with the second strike.

He’s been staring at them for what feels like hours.

Eventually, he pulls one glove off. Then the other.

The fabric clings to his skin, peeling away reluctantly, leaving the tender scrapes exposed.

His hands are worse than he thought. The knuckles are swollen, a dark pink where the blows landed hardest. One split curves along the ridge of his right hand, deep enough that pressing it makes his vision spark for a moment. He presses anyway.

A tear falls before he notices it.

He wipes it away with the heel of his palm, annoyed more than ashamed. The tears aren’t useful. They fog his thoughts. His mind works best when every corridor is lit, every drawer closed. This - this grief, this… whatever it is - clutters everything.

But the memories don’t stop coming.

Gi-hun’s voice, steady despite the chaos, like it always had been when they were young and believed in things that never existed: “We can get out of here. Both of us.”

He had said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if believing hard enough could bend reality to his will.

That was Gi-hun: always hope before reason, heart before self-preservation, courage that looked like foolishness and felt like salvation.

For a moment, Sang-woo almost believed him when he said it. Almost reached back. Even knowing how ridiculous it was, even knowing there is no escape from this place.

It wasn’t the first time Gi-hun’s foolishness made him want to believe. He remembers another afternoon, when he was nine years old. Gi-hun had found a battered, half-broken bicycle behind the market and dragged it home like a treasure. The frame was bent, one pedal missing, chain rusted through. Sang-woo had told him it was useless, told him to toss it, told him it was a waste of time.

Gi-hun only grinned. “Doesn’t matter. It still moves forward.”

He spent hours fixing it with tape and wire, hands black with grease, shirt streaked with dirt.

It never worked right. The chain slipped every other turn. But when they finally got it rolling down the alley, Gi-hun laughed like it was the finest machine in the world. He’d insisted Sang-woo take the first ride. He’d run behind him the whole way, laughing breathlessly, even as the front wheel wobbled and the whole thing rattled like it might fall apart.

Sang-woo feels the corner of his mouth twitch at the memory, almost a smile.

But the memory doesn’t stop there.

Because a week later, there was the sparrow.

Gi-hun had found it on the edge of the park, a small, fragile thing with one wing bent at a strange angle, its chest rising too fast. Most boys their age would have left it, knowing what came next. Sang-woo told him as much. “It’ll die by morning. That’s how it goes.”

Gi-hun ignored him. He brought it home and built it a nest from his old school shirt, held water to its beak with his fingertips, whispered to it like the right words might knit bone and keep the night away.

Sang-woo had watched, arms crossed, saying nothing.

By morning, the sparrow was dead. Its body curled in the shirt, still, light as paper when Gi-hun tried to pick it up. He had cried into his knees, his voice catching the way it did when he tried not to make noise. 

Sang-woo sat beside him. Dug the hole when Gi-hun asked. Listened as Gi-hun whispered something kind over the grave. Told him, finally, it was foolish to think wanting could make anything live.

Gi-hun never seemed to hear him when he said things like that. Or maybe he just refused.

The almost-smile in Sang-woo’s face fades.

Instead, the tears come again. Slow at first, then hot, insistent. He wipes them away.

How foolish, how devastatingly brave, for Gi-hun to trust him. To reach out on that rooftop, hand offered as if nothing had changed. As if Sang-woo was worth saving.

How could he still believe that the boy he knew hadn’t vanished inside the man Sang-woo had become?

How could he be naïve enough to scream Sang-woo’s name?

He can still hear it. His name, breaking in Gi-hun’s throat. His own silence, heavier than any strike.

It ruined everything. Whatever distance Sang-woo had tried to maintain - whatever lie he had told himself about being unrecognizable, untouchable - it collapsed with that single word. Gi-hun knew. And he had still looked at him like someone worth calling to.

It’s easy, in theory, to follow orders and imagine yourself as a tool, blameless by design. But Gi-hun knowing - recognizing, calling to him, demanding humanity from him in the moment of his worst cruelty - stripped Sang-woo bare.

There was no mask thick enough to keep him safe from that. No lie left to hide behind.

Because once Gi-hun said his name, Sang-woo couldn’t separate the man on the floor from the boy he’d known his whole life.

The boy who found a rusted bicycle with no pedal, swore it could still carry them anywhere, and ran behind him breathless, laughing, even when the chain skipped every turn.

The boy who built nests out of old shirts and cupped a dying sparrow in his palms, swearing the world could still be kind.

The boy who showed up, grinning, outside the gates of Sang-woo’s high school, soaked from rain, saying he’d walked an hour just to bring him a meat bun because “I thought you’d be too busy studying to eat.”, while Sang-woo tried not to notice how unfairly beautiful he looked, wet hair plastered to his face, smile soft despite the cold.

The same grin, years later, on the steps of Sang-woo’s college dorm, Gi-hun holding a cheap bottle of soju, saying “you didn’t think you’d leave me behind, right?”, like their lives hadn’t already split in two.

The boy who never cared that Sang-woo pushed him away. Who kept showing up. Who kept believing there was something in Sang-woo worth coming back for.

Who believes it still, even now, when Sang-woo has done nothing to deserve it.

And the truth - the unbearable, choking truth - is that part of him still wants to believe in that boy’s world. Wants to reach back. Wants to be pulled out of this machine and told there’s a version of him worth saving.

If Gi-hun was foolish to hope, Sang-woo is a coward for running from it. For destroying it. For needing it so much it hurts to breathe.

His thoughts are interrupted by a quiet, almost polite knock at the door. 

In-ho steps inside, the mask still on. He closes the door behind him without speaking.

Sang-woo doesn’t move. He stays seated, hands loose on his lap, eyes tracking In-ho like he’s an intruder in a museum.

Finally, In-ho removes the mask and sets it on the desk beside the untouched laptop.

The two men look at each other, silent. 

Then, In-ho nods toward Sang-woo’s hands.

“How are your hands?”

Sang-woo doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. He gives In-ho a look - just a look - that says everything.

In-ho doesn’t look away. “You can be seen by the medical-”

“No need,” Sang-woo replies. His voice is calm, but there’s a low venom underneath. “I’m sure they’re busy.”

He leans back against the wall, gaze steady, unblinking. He lets the silence linger, then tilts his head slightly. “Anything else… sir?” 

In-ho’s jaw shifts. “You can drop the formalities. We’re alone.”

Sang-woo runs a thumb over one swollen knuckle, watching the skin move over bone. He makes In-ho wait for his answer. Finally:

“Then answer the question I actually care about. How is he?”

There’s a pause. In-ho folds his arms, voice low. “Stable. For now.”

Sang-woo’s eyes close, just for a second. Enough to feel the relief, brief and hollow.

“He lost a significant amount of blood,” In-ho continues. “Two fractured ribs. One punctured the pleura; they inserted a chest tube, drained the blood. He’ll be monitored for infection. Swelling in the face is extensive, but manageable. Transfusions replaced most of the blood loss. He’s sedated.”

Sang-woo looks down at his hands again.

They’re trembling.

He closes them slowly, carefully, into fists. The shaking stills. Control is a small comfort, but it’s still comfort.

He remembers that medical room - the white lights overhead, the silence before the pain caught up to consciousness.

That’s where Gi-hun is now. The same place Sang-woo woke up after the Games. Alone.

But Gi-hun doesn’t deserve that kind of solitude. That kind of cold.

He imagines him on the bed - barely breathing, hooked to machines, blood not yet his own pumping back into him. He imagines the slow return to pain, the disorientation, the moment of remembering. And after that, the question: 

Why?

It’s unbearable, the thought of him opening his eyes and finding no one there. No voice. No explanation. Just the ceiling.

He should be there. To answer. To be hated, if that’s what’s left.

He should be there.

Instead, he sits in a room too small to hold what he’s done, pretending there’s a version of this that didn’t ruin everything between them.

In-ho breaks the silence, voice careful. “You won’t be allowed near him again.”

Sang-woo doesn’t flinch. He’d known the moment Gi-hun screamed his name. The deal was dead the second that sound left Gi-hun’s mouth. Maybe it’s for the best. If Gi-hun’s ever going to remember him, let it be as the man who died for him. Not this.

Sang-woo’s voice comes out low, hoarse:

“Why? Why did you make me do it, In-ho? Why him? Hasn’t he suffered enough? After everything? After that brilliant idea of yours, having him announce the rules for the final Game, with that girl dying in his arms? You really thought piling this on top of it was necessary?”

He means to sound accusatory, but it comes out as pleading.

In-ho exhales, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you really think I wanted that? You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know what you want anymore,” Sang-woo says. “All I know is I had to beat him until he couldn’t breathe, while he screamed my name and you-”

“You broke discipline.” In-ho doesn’t raise his voice.  “You slipped him food. You spoke to a Soldier out of turn. You froze when they pushed you to act. More than once. You said you could maintain distance. You didn’t. I warned you what that would mean.”

Sang-woo laughs, but it’s hollow and sharp. “So what was I supposed to do? Let him starve? Watch while that brute tried to-” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I helped you capture him, In-ho. I gave your Soldiers his location. Don’t pretend I didn’t do what you asked.”

None of it matters now. Sang-woo always knew Gi-hun would never make it off the island.

Still, the image of Gi-hun’s face when Sang-woo called it in is burned into him. The devastation. The unspoken question: You too?

And the answer was yes.

In-ho glances at the laptop on the desk. “No progress on the project, I take it.”

Sang-woo can’t find the strength to answer. His silence says enough.

In-ho exhales. “Your time as a Worker is over. You’ll return to your room and resume your job as Auditor. The project starts tonight.”

Sang-woo forces his voice out, but it’s small, shaking. “I’m not doing it.”

He expects anger, but In-ho only watches him, disappointment etched in every line of his face. 

“Sang-woo. It’s not optional.”

Sang-woo shakes his head, sharp. “I’m done. I mean it. Find someone else. Let the Board do their own dirty work for once.”

In-ho folds his arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His gaze drifts to the laptop again, then back to Sang-woo.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” In-ho asks, softer this time. “You know why it has to be you.”

Sang-woo closes his eyes. He wants to laugh, but it sticks in his throat. “Find someone else. Anyone. I don’t care.”

“Do you want to know what happens if you refuse? Really refuse?” In-ho asks. “The Board won’t take no. If you drag your feet, if you stall, I’ll have to assign a Manager to sit with you while you work. You’ll be locked in for every work hour. If necessary, I’ll have them handcuff you to the desk.”

He pauses.

“And if that doesn’t work, I’ll sit there myself, right across from you. Watching every word you type, until the file is done. One way or another, you will do your job.”

The threat lands, cold and solid. Sang-woo looks up, startled. 

“Do you want me to lie?” In-ho continues, softer, but somehow even more dangerous. “Pretend you have a choice? You don’t.”

Sang-woo exhales slowly through his nose. His hands curl into fists on his knees, the bruised knuckles throbbing.

“You can’t just-”

“I can,” In-ho says, and there’s nothing left of the old friend in his voice. “And I will. Do you remember what I told you? That if it came to it, I’d force you? I wasn’t bluffing.”

Sang-woo stares at the floor, letting the silence settle. He focuses on the grid of the tiles, the pattern in the dust. Anything to keep his mind from wandering where it wants to go. He breathes in, breathes out, counting each inhale and exhale. 

He keeps his voice measured. “No,” he says, and the word lands with more control than he feels. He breathes again, steadier, eyes never leaving the floor. “No, In-ho. I can’t.”

He reminds himself who he is. The Auditor.

The man behind the silver Raven mask, the one whose presence makes people flinch at Board meetings. Ruthless, precise, unshakable.

So he sits straight. Shoulders back. Hands folded neatly on his knees, the way he’s done a thousand times. He watches the faint reflection of his face in the desk lamp’s polished metal, unblinking, like he can anchor himself in the image of the man he’s supposed to be.

But the pressure builds anyway. It sits at the base of his skull, crawls down his neck, tightens his chest. The tremor in his hands won’t stop, no matter how tightly he laces his fingers.

He draws a slow breath, holds it, lets it go.

Then another.

And another.

“I said no,” he tries again, barely above a whisper. He feels the tremor travel up his arms, settle in his chest. “I said no.”

His fingers tighten on his knees, bruised knuckles blanching. 

The cracks spread faster than he can patch them.

It starts with a twitch in his leg, the kind you can almost ignore. Then a restless jerk of his shoulders. By the time he realizes he’s moving, he’s already on his feet, unsteady, reaching forward like a drowning man grabs for a ledge.

His fists knot into In-ho’s coat, white-knuckled. His forehead lowers until it almost brushes In-ho’s shoulder. His voice rips out, ragged:

“I tried, In-ho.” He mumbles. “I swear I did. I thought I could - if I kept my head down, treated it like work, just numbers, just tasks... I thought I could do it. But I can’t. I can’t.”

His voice dies there, and the first sob claws its way out, sharp and humiliating. He tries to bite it back, but it won’t be stopped. Not now.

He sinks, knees hitting the floor hard, fists still tangled in In-ho’s coat. Tears slide down his cheeks, hot and endless. His shoulders heave, and all he can do is hold on, knuckles burning, until he feels like he’s holding on for dear life.

“I can’t,” he mutters, again and again, the words dissolving into his breath. “I can’t do this… I can’t, I can’t-”

He doesn’t remember the last time he let himself break like this. It’s humiliating, but it’s also a relief - like breathing for the first time after years underwater.

He barely feels when In-ho kneels beside him, not until he feels the leather of a gloved hand, cool and unfamiliar, settle at the nape of his neck.

The contact is shockingly intimate, so unlike them it hurts. They’ve never done this before, never allowed anything close. Sang-woo almost resists it out of habit, but he can’t bear to let go.

“It’s your fault,” he mumbles, voice thick, uneven. “All of it. You make me… you always make me-”

Another sob overtakes him, cutting the words in half. His breath hitches, teeth chattering once before he can steady it.

In-ho’s voice comes low, level.  “You’re good at this, Sang-woo. You always were. You see the lines no one else sees. You see the way things connect, the consequences no one else wants to acknowledge. You don’t look away. Even when it eats at you. That’s what makes you valuable. That’s why it has to be you.”

The words aren’t comfort. They’re a reminder. And they land exactly where they’re meant to: in the hollow space between Sang-woo’s shame and his sense of duty. Manipulation dressed as kindness. And yet, some small traitorous part of Sang-woo finds relief in being seen, even like this.

In-ho’s grip on his neck firms, just enough to tilt Sang-woo’s head upward, forcing his gaze to meet his.

“If it’s not you, it will be someone worse. Someone who doesn’t hesitate. Someone who won’t even think of what it costs.”

Sang-woo exhales, shaking, another sob tearing through him. His hands loosen slightly, then tighten again on In-ho’s coat.

He lowers his head, lets his forehead fall against In-ho’s shoulder - clumsy, graceless. His body shakes with the remnants of his sobs, but he doesn’t pull back. He can’t.

And In-ho lets him. He doesn’t push him away, doesn’t correct the posture. He just stays there, silent, his hand firm at Sang-woo’s neck, the other steady against his shoulder, holding him up while he falls apart.

For the first time in years, Sang-woo doesn’t force himself to stop crying.

And for the first time in years, someone stays while he does.

 

 

The clock in the office makes more noise than Sang-woo’s fingers on the keyboard.

He types, stops, stares, erases - sometimes just to watch the cursor blink, as if the screen might solve the file for him if he waits long enough.

Hee-soon sits in the spare chair by the door, arms crossed, exactly where In-ho instructed him to be. He is wearing his black Officer’s uniform - meant to mark him as something more than a grunt.

His square mask lies on Sang-woo’s desk, carelessly set down. The gun is out, resting on his thigh, thumb drumming the grip, always making sure Sang-woo can see it.

Sang-woo flicks his gaze over, dead-eyed. He thinks about how much he regrets ever recommending Hee-soon for promotion, pushing his name to In-ho, the logic cold and simple: a man desperate for approval is easy to control.

Sang-woo was right, as always. Three years in the job, and Hee-soon is still clinging to In-ho, thinking every favor brings him closer to the throne.

He thought, Sang-woo knows, that being made an Officer would give him real power. Maybe even a shot at being Leader, when the day came. But he’s just In-ho’s errand boy. He had one chance - when In-ho infiltrated the Games and left Hee-soon in charge for a handful of days. Sang-woo remembers how happy the man was, strutting around, acting like the island was his. The pride, the pathetic hunger for respect that no uniform could buy.

Now the best he can do is sit sentry by the Auditor’s door, playing watchdog over the man who used to hand him orders.

But Sang-woo can see the satisfaction in the set of his mouth, the tilt of his chin. This is the first time in years the balance has shifted, the first time Hee-soon can look down at him instead of up - and he’s going to savor it, drag it out, bleed every ounce of pleasure from it.

At one point, Sang-woo’s hands fall still. He sits back, eyes drifting from the screen to Hee-soon. The man flicks his head toward the monitor.

“I’d hurry up if I were you. You know how In-ho gets about deadlines.”

Sang-woo sighs. He glances down at the files - companies, dummy accounts, insurance fraud so elaborate even he can’t track every line. Potential investors, phone calls to schedule, meetings that won’t happen. He hasn’t contacted his team, hasn’t distributed tasks, hasn’t done a damn thing In-ho asked except for the minimum needed to look busy. A little bit here, a little there. Just enough to make the screen look full.

It’s all delay, all avoidance. Hee-soon doesn’t seem to notice, too caught up in his own little victory.

Just as the silence begins to suffocate him, the door opens.

In-ho steps inside, the mask still in place, and for a brief second, Sang-woo’s heart skips. It’s been three days since he last saw him, three days since his breakdown, three days since he let himself be held, since In-ho saw him as something less than the machine he worked so hard to become.

He’s still not ready. He’s not ready to face him.

“Leave us,” In-ho orders without looking at Hee-soon.

Hee-soon hesitates for a moment. There’s a flash of something behind his eyes - resentment? Jealousy? But he obeys. He stands up, gives Sang-woo one last glance, and walks out.

Sang-woo doesn’t move. He’s too afraid to look at In-ho, too aware of what’s about to happen. His fingers hover above the keyboard but don’t touch it. He feels frozen, like a fly caught in a web.

In-ho steps into the room, the door clicking softly behind him. He walks to the desk, takes off his mask, and sets it down with deliberate care. The action sends a chill through Sang-woo.

Sang-woo knows what’s coming next. He has no idea how to prepare for it. He thinks maybe - just maybe - if he keeps his head down, if he doesn’t look, the words won’t hit as hard.

He opens his mouth, stammering out the first words that come to mind. “The project... I...”

“This isn’t about the project,” In-ho says.

Sang-woo freezes. He feels it before the words even leave In-ho’s lips.

“It’s about Player 456.”

Sang-woo’s heart skips a beat. He feels like the room is closing in on him. His breath catches in his throat, and panic starts to claw its way up. What happened? he thinks, his mind racing. Did he die? Did he-

His eyes widen as he locks onto In-ho’s gaze, desperate for some reassurance.

“No,” In-ho says, answering his unspoken question before it can escape. “He woke up.”

Sang-woo feels like he’s been thrown into cold water. His head reels, and for a moment, he’s left speechless. He exhales sharply, a shaky smile tugging at his lips.

But then In-ho drops the real bomb.

“He wants to see you.”

For a long, blank second, the words don’t compute. He blinks, waiting for the echo to distort, to prove itself some elaborate hallucination of longing. But the silence stretches, and In-ho’s face does not waver.

Relief, so pure it borders on terror, cracks open in Sang-woo’s chest. 

He wants to see you. What a childish, impossible sentence.

He swallows, dazed; there is happiness there, monstrous and shameful. The flood of it is nearly enough to make him sick. Hadn’t he, these last three nights, resigned himself – no, willed himself - to a world in which Gi-hun’s eyes would never meet his again? He had told himself it was mercy. He’d rehearsed a thousand rationalizations: for Gi-hun’s sake. For his own. This exile was the final bitter gift.

And now-

He manages, after a beat, half-astonished, “I thought I wasn’t allowed near him. That was-” His composure falters. “You made it clear.”

In-ho doesn’t flinch. “Player 456 and I made an arrangement,” he replies. “One not unlike the one you and I made.”

Sang-woo’s mind turns the word arrangement over. The very word that has come to define him, to chain him to his own calculated damnation. He knows the taste of it, ever since he bartered his own soul for the privilege of standing beside Gi-hun, even if it meant lowering himself to Worker rank, letting himself become anonymous.

Now, it is Gi-hun who has said yes. But what did he give? What did he surrender for this chance?

His heart seizes.

“What arrangement?” Sang-woo asks quietly.

There’s a pause, as if In-ho is granting him time to arrive at the answer on his own - a condescension Sang-woo resents even as he cannot look away.

“What arrangement, In-ho?” He tries again, more sharply.

A shadow passes through In-ho’s eyes, and he only says, “You’re not a fool, Sang-woo.”

And Sang-woo is not. Not when it matters. The gears catch, grind, lock into place. He sees it now: the shape of the bargain, the give and take, the way hope - Gi-hun’s most dangerous trait - could be weaponized against him.

He said yes.

Gi-hun said yes.

Gi-hun, who once stood like a question mark against everything this place stood for - he said yes. Gi-hun, with his blistering conscience, his impossible faith. He’d always been infuriating in that way. And now…

Now he’s here.

A Host. In-ho’s partner. Complicit.

And Sang-woo knows, immediately, terribly, whose fault it is.

Gi-hun exchanged his principles, his integrity, his goodness - just to have Sang-woo within reach again.

Sang-woo closes his eyes, dizzy. A cruel voice echoes in his mind: Look what you’ve done to him. Look what he has become because of you.

It’s monstrous, Sang-woo thinks numbly. To love a monster is itself monstrous. And Gi-hun deserves better than to sacrifice his humanity for someone who has long since abandoned his own.

“You knew this would happen eventually,” In-ho says, not unkindly.

Sang-woo’s mouth twists in something like agreement, something like surrender.

Of course he knew. It was either this - this obscene chess game of In-ho’s - or Gi-hun’s death in the Games. He told himself he didn’t want him dead. He told himself anything that kept Gi-hun breathing was worth the price. But now that the bill has come due, he realizes how cowardly that calculation was.

He should have done more. He could have - should have - helped Gi-hun escape. Perhaps that day on the rooftop, or even before, when it was just the two of them in the cell. Even knowing the odds - no blind spots on the island, every corner observed, every boat with a tracker, Soldiers everywhere, no hope of evading them all - he should have tried. It would have been doomed, almost certainly. But he owed Gi-hun that much.

But he didn’t. Because some part of him - the part he hates - had grown too comfortable behind the mask of Auditor.

He’d told himself he needed power to protect Gi-hun. But maybe that power had seduced him more than he ever admitted.

Coward.

He finds himself on his feet, pacing before he’s even aware he’s moved, his hands opening and closing in restless fists. He exhales hard - almost a laugh, but there’s no humor left in him.

“You must be-” The word snags, but he pushes on, spitting it out with all the venom he can muster, “ecstatic right now.”

In-ho’s gaze meets his, flat and unwavering. “Sang-woo-”

“Don’t,” Sang-woo snaps. “Don’t give me the speech. I’m not in the mood. You did it. Congratulations. After all this time, you finally pulled it off. Gi-hun, Host, standing right there by your side. Was that the plan, In-ho? All along?”

He shakes his head, a dry, joyless laugh.

“God. You must’ve put on one hell of a show for the Board. I hope you got a standing ovation.”

His words echo, too loud for the quiet room. For a heartbeat, it almost seems like In-ho might look away, but he just blinks, his composure a shield he wears better than any mask.

“You know why I did it.”

The calm in his voice is a challenge. 

Sang-woo snorts, pacing faster. He rakes his fingers through his hair, feeling sweat at his hairline.

“Yeah. Sure. You did it to keep him alive. I heard the promise, In-ho. I heard you say you’d find a way to keep him breathing. But don’t pretend this wasn’t indulgence. Don’t you fucking dare. It was all for you. Every inch of it.”

He turns, stabbing the air with a trembling finger. 

“You could have done more. You could have kept him off this island entirely. You know it. You had the Board’s ear. You could’ve bargained - could’ve twisted the knife in a hundred ways, come up with any number of alternatives. But you didn’t. Because this is what you wanted. Him, close. Right next to you, under your thumb.”

In-ho listens, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed thin, not interrupting. Sang-woo can feel the weight of that silence, the calculation in it.

Sang-woo’s mouth twists. “It was almost artful, the way you hid in plain sight. During the Games. The way you got close to him, joined his team, defended him. Christ. I used to think you were just clever, but that was obsession.” He sneers. “All that effort to stand beside him, like you belonged there.”

He stops abruptly, shoulders bunched, tension radiating down his spine. His chest is tight, breath ragged. He throws a glance over his shoulder.

“Did you enjoy it, seeing him trust you, seeing him cling to whatever hope you handed out, thinking you were on his side? That must’ve been the sweetest part.”

Sang-woo shakes his head, and the words come faster, sharper.

“And then you bring him here. But before he gets to play Host, you lock him up. That cell- “

His voice cracks. He has to swallow before he can go on. 

“You watched him unravel, watched him question everything that made him... him. You watched him starve, alone in that box, just so you could play hero when you finally let him out.”

For a moment, he looks away, pain burning bright and hot in his throat. When he speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper, accusation fraying at the edges.

“If you actually cared about his safety, you’d have kept him out of all this. You could have left him alone, let him build some kind of life, far from… whatever this is.”

He lets the silence hang just long enough for it to feel heavier.

“But that wasn’t the point, was it? No. The point was… proximity. Keeping him where you could see him. Where you could-” he falters, the word ugly in his mouth, “have him.”

He stands there, heart pounding, vision blurring at the edges with anger. And for a moment, he almost hopes In-ho will explode, will yell, will hit back. But instead-

“You helped.”

It’s not loud or angry. But it stops everything.

Sang-woo’s lips part, but nothing comes. His hands drop to his sides, useless, all fight bleeding out of him. He has nothing left to throw, because the last thing - the ugliest thing - is his own complicity. The weight of all the ways he could have tried, and didn’t.

He helped.

The argument collapses into a stretch of tense silence. And then-

“Player 456 will be permitted to see you,” In-ho says, calm again. “Whenever he wants.”

Sang-woo’s stomach turns. The walls close in again.

“But your meetings,” In-ho continues, “will be monitored.”

“What?”

In-ho’s answer is maddeningly calm. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Sang-woo. You’ve earned my respect over the years. But with him, your judgment is… compromised. Even if I told you not to speak of the project, not to mention it, I couldn’t be certain. So your meetings will be watched. Only to make sure you don’t… overstep.”

It’s almost reasonable, which is why Sang-woo wants to laugh. Or shout. Or look anywhere but at In-ho’s face.

He waits, letting the silence stretch until it’s almost unbearable.

Then, with all the exhaustion of someone who’s carried this argument alone for too long:

“You don’t want me to tell him about what I’m working on.”

“No.”

“You don’t want him to know.”

“No.”

Something thick and bitter crawls up Sang-woo’s throat.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then, louder: “You fucking hypocrite.”

A faint twitch in In-ho’s brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His voice spikes, then catches. “You drag him here, put him in a mask, give him a seat at the table-” he waves a hand, as if the air itself offends him, “-and you won’t let him see what he’s actually sitting on. You want him right there next to you, but God forbid he finds out what you’re building. What I’m building for you. For the Board.”

He swallows hard.

“You’re-” the word tastes wrong, but he forces it out, “-you’re grooming him. Dosing him. Bit by bit, just enough to keep him… easy, soft. That’s all this is.”

In-ho exhales, steady. “People need time, Sang-woo. They take things one truth at a time. You can’t throw it all at him at once. He’ll know, when it matters. For now, he learns what he needs to. The rest comes later.”

Sang-woo stares at him for a long beat, jaw tight, something twisting in his gut. And then it bursts out:

“One truth at a time - until when? Until you’ve dirtied him enough that he won’t fight you?” he snaps. His voice has gone raw. “Until you’ve twisted him into someone who’ll sign whatever you put in front of him, nod along, stop looking too closely? That’s the fucking plan, isn’t it? Get him used to it. Break him in slow. Turn him into one of us and then pretend it was his idea all along. Ruin him, then hand him the keys.”

In-ho doesn’t answer.

Sang-woo’s breathing hard now. He tries to steady himself, but the words keep pushing out.

“Why? Why not just tell him? Is it because you think he’d say no? Or-” he laughs, bitter and broken all at once. “-or maybe you like him this way. Maybe you think there’s something in him that would vanish if he saw all of it and you’re… protective of it. Whatever it is that makes him different from us.”

He stops suddenly, frighteningly aware of how far he’s gone. He looks at In-ho - really looks - searching the other man’s face for the smallest betrayal, a flicker of shame, of triumph, of something recognizably human.

But In-ho is a fortress. He offers nothing.

“Or maybe you-” Sang-woo begins again, but the words dissolve on his tongue.

Silence settles, and in it his own mind turns on him. The argument drifts into the background; something else starts to take shape, slow, reluctant.

Maybe it isn’t about protection. Maybe it’s not about keeping Gi-hun unspoiled, or precious, or pure - maybe it’s doubt. Maybe In-ho, for all his plans and his power, doesn’t trust Gi-hun to play his part. Doesn’t trust him to be remade, or to stay.

Maybe he’s waiting for Gi-hun to rebel. Maybe he’s bracing himself for it.

The thought lodges, then deepens, sending small fractures through all the easy assumptions Sang-woo has made about In-ho’s control.

If that’s true, then all of this - the careful withholding, the staged half-truths - isn’t just strategy. It’s a siege. In-ho is holding the gates shut until he’s sure what kind of man he’s invited in.

And that - God help him - makes Sang-woo proud.

Yes, Gi-hun said yes. But it’s so easy now to picture the conditions, the state he must have been in when he did.

If Sang-woo closes his eyes, he can see it: Gi-hun upright, because pride would never let him take an offer lying down, not even in a hospital bed. Still pale from the blood loss, the stiffness of fluid in his lungs slowing his breath but standing all the same.

His hand extended - not in surrender, but in a calculated reach, his body saying I am strong enough to meet you here.

There would be no smile to ease the tension, no display of gratitude to soften the exchange - only that stubborn, almost infuriating light in his eyes. The one that says, I will use you. I will take what I need. But I am not yours.

Sang-woo can see it as though he’d been in the room: the way In-ho’s hand would close around Gi-hun’s, how the shake would be firm, brief. How Gi-hun’s gaze would hold, unblinking, until In-ho let go.

And somewhere, behind whatever mask he wore, In-ho would see it - that refusal to yield - and file it away.

Yes. Of course he would.

Maybe that’s why he’s delaying. Not to protect anything fragile, but to break something resistant. To strip away whatever it is that made Gi-hun’s eyes look like that when he shook his hand.

Sang-woo’s mouth curves, almost imperceptibly, before he can stop it. It is not a smile meant for anyone else, least of all the man standing in front of him. It is the small, dangerous satisfaction of knowing that if his reading is right, then In-ho has taken on something that will not bend easily, something that will push back with every step.

Gi-hun may have accepted the position, may have let them place the title in his hands, but he will carry it on his own terms. He will resist in ways that cannot be measured, refusing to let them take the last part of himself that still answers to no one.

Slowly, almost against his will, Sang-woo lifts his eyes - and finds In-ho already waiting for him there. The look is steady, patient, as though In-ho has been holding it for some time, knowing the exact shape of the thought forming in Sang-woo’s mind. 

For a long, thin breath, they hold each other’s eyes, this unspoken thing hanging in the air, until the weight of it presses too hard and Sang-woo has to look away.

Then, with the smallest shift of weight, In-ho steps closer and lays a hand on Sang-woo’s shoulder.

“Not a word about the project, Sang-woo.”

The muscle at the hinge of Sang-woo jaw tightens, the only place the resistance shows. He gives nothing back, not even a flicker of acknowledgement.

“When the time comes, Hee-soon will escort you to my quarters,” In-ho continues, tone already drifting back to the matter-of-fact. “You’ll see Player 456 there.”

Sang-woo’s gaze stays fixed on the desk, on nothing in particular, as In-ho’s hand falls away. The scrape of movement - In-ho reaching for the mask resting on the corner of the desk - draws Sang-woo’s eyes up just in time to see the black lacquer catch the light. One last small adjustment of the straps, and the mask is back in place, the man behind it shuttered away again.

Without another word, In-ho turns and crosses the room, his steps quiet but absolute, the door shutting with a soft, final click.

 

 

The hour arrives quietly.

Sang-woo stands in his bedroom, still and bare-footed, facing the mirror. The light in the room is low and cold, and so is the reflection staring back at him - gray suit, stiff collar, the severe line of the Auditor’s uniform drawn tight across his frame.

He looks like someone important. Someone trusted.

Someone capable of terrible things.

The sight makes his stomach turn.

There was a time - not long ago, but it feels like another life - when the uniform gave him a thrill. When he would smooth the lapels with careful pride, remembering how he’d clawed his way up from nothing to become someone In-ho and the Board could trust.

He had believed in that man. Until that project. Until Gi-hun returned.

Now all he sees is a fraud.

He removes his glasses slowly, fingers trembling slightly at the hinge, sets them gently on the bedside table, and glances again at the mirror. 

Through it, just behind his own reflection, he sees the stand where the Raven mask sits, blank and patient. Its gaze finds his across the room, polished metal catching the light, expressionless and knowing.

He breaks eye contact, as if burned.

He turns to the closet and opens it, hand trembling just slightly on the handle. There, neatly hung, is the uniform he wore when he beat Gi-hun: the bright pink of the Worker’s suit, scrubbed of blood and memory. The circle mask hangs beside it, blank and ordinary.

He lets his fingers brush the fabric, surprised at the steadiness of his own touch.

The choice is easy. He wants to wear it. He wants to become small again, to slip into anonymity, to be the ally Gi-hun once believed he was, if only for a little longer. If he must confess the truth - about himself, about the part he played in the Games - let him do it in another skin.

He shrugs out of the gray suit, letting it fall across the bed in a limp, defeated heap. He steps into the pink, zips it up. It fits differently than it did that day. Lighter, almost, as if all the weight has been transferred to his chest.

The mask is last. He lifts it and holds it for a breath, feeling the cool press of its edges, the blankness it promises. When he slips it on, the world narrows, muffled, intimate.

He stands before the mirror, circle mask in place, and for a heartbeat he looks like nothing at all. He is not Auditor. He is just another Worker, faceless and ordinary. The illusion comforts him. It is, perhaps, the last mercy he can grant himself.

He knows he will tell Gi-hun the truth – everything he’s permitted to say. His role, his failures, his complicity. He owes him that, at the very least. But if he can keep the mask on a little longer, let the illusion hold for one more hour, maybe the first betrayal will sting a little less. Maybe Gi-hun will recognize the man beneath.

One lie at a time. One truth at a time.

It is all Sang-woo has left.

He turns to leave.

Outside the bedroom, Sang-woo finds Hee-soon waiting, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, maskless and radiating smugness. A Soldier stands beside him, silent, anonymous behind the triangle mask.

Sang-woo and Hee-soon lock eyes. The amusement in Hee-soon’s face is unmistakable; he lets his gaze sweep pointedly over Sang-woo’s uniform, the pink fabric, the circle mask. He doesn’t bother to hide the small curl of his lip - Really? you can almost hear him think.

“Well?” Hee-son asks.

Sang-woo lifts his arms, silent, submitting to the ritual. 

The Soldier steps forward, professional and silent. He runs a scanner along Sang-woo’s sides, then performs the standard pat-down - shoulders, ribs, waistband, ankles. Fingers check the seams, the gloves, the pockets.

When the inspection drags on, Sang-woo’s jaw tightens. He turns his head slightly toward Hee-soon.

“I spoke to In-ho,” he says, voice low. “I’m not going to speak to Gi-hun about the project. I’m not going to try anything.”

Hee-soon cocks his head, tone light but sharp. “Orders are orders, Auditor. Seems In-ho doesn’t trust you as much as you think.” His grin widens. “Not that I blame him.”

The Soldier steps back, gives a curt nod. “All clear.”

Without further comment, Hee-soon flicks his chin toward the exit, signaling Sang-woo to move ahead.

They exit Sang-woo’s quarters together, side by side in silence - their uniforms a study in contradiction: Sang-woo in pink, low-ranking by appearance; Hee-soon in black, crisp and official. 

They reach the elevator. Sang-woo steps in first, Hee-soon close behind, their shoulders not quite touching. The doors seal shut, and the lift begins its slow climb. 

Sang-woo stands rigid, hands at his sides, refusing even a sidelong glance at Hee-soon. He fixes his eyes on a distant point in the wall, determined to deny the man even the smallest satisfaction.

The elevator finally shudders to a halt. For a heartbeat, neither of them moves. Then the doors part. Sang-woo steps forward into the corridor, but Hee-soon remains inside, weight balanced lazily on his heels.

Then, with a soft metallic sigh, the elevator doors slip shut, sealing them into separate worlds once again.

Now alone, Sang-woo moves slowly down the corridor, as if the floor might give way beneath him. Muscle memory guides him, drawing him toward a room he’s passed countless times: the spare bedroom in In-ho’s private quarters. Always empty.

Until now.

Gi-hun’s new room.

The thought stops him mid-step, sours his mouth.

He hates it. God, he hates it. The speed of it. The neatness. The way the place has taken him in, shaped itself around him without hesitation, like the walls were already waiting for his shadow. Sheets already turned. Space already made. As if the building knew he was coming.

Not Gi-hun the man. Not the stupid, stubborn, grinning mess he remembers. No - this is Gi-hun the role. Gi-hun the ornament. Some perfect Host-shaped thing for In-ho to parade down the hall.

The thought makes something twist, low and hot. At In-ho, first, for putting him here like a trophy on the mantel. Like a thing to be admired. Like possession.

But there’s plenty left for himself. Because he did this. Every form he signed, every compromise, every piece of the machine he helped turn - he made the path. He built the door. And now Gi-hun’s on the other side of it.

And some of that bitterness - shamefully, helplessly - spills toward Gi-hun as well. Because from here it looks like he’s bent. Like he’s lain down for them. Like he’s let In-ho’s hand on his shoulder mean something.

But Sang-woo knows better. He knows him. Knows he’ll bide his time, let them think they’ve remade him, and when they’re not looking - cut them to the bone.

He stops in front of the door, one hand hovering over the handle, the moment stretching out in his mind. His reflection stares back at him in the brushed steel, faceless behind the circle mask.

He hesitates, suddenly unsure. Opening this door means stepping into everything he’s tried to keep at arm’s length: the weight of his own choices, the truth of what he’s become, and the man inside - the one he’s hurt, failed, and never managed to save.

He holds his breath, waiting - just for a moment - pretending that if he stands still, nothing will change. That the moment before reunion is safer than the thing itself. That the threshold is gentler than crossing it.

But he’s tired of running, tired of lying. Tired of being a man whose life is measured only by what he refuses to face.

At last, with a trembling exhale, Sang-woo closes his fingers around the handle, steeling himself for whatever waits inside. He turns it, and steps over the threshold.

The door opens with a whisper, but it sounds like a scream in his ears.

There’s a moment where he almost doesn’t recognize the shape in the bed. Just skin and tubing. Bone and bruise. A human outline that looks like it’s been traced and erased too many times. Then the shape stirs, and he knows.

It’s him.

Gi-hun.

Alive, but-

Not the way Sang-woo used to see him. Not the man in his memories, not even the man he’d left bleeding.

His collarbone juts beneath the cotton gown like it’s trying to break free. There are hollows under his eyes where life should be. His skin is pale in the wrong way - not soft and healthy, but drained, grey-white, like he’s halfway into another world. There’s a bruise high on his cheekbone, yellowing at the edge. There’s a tremor in his hand even as he grips the bedsheets like an anchor.

And the tubing. The goddamn IV pole. The monitor. The oxygen.

Sang-woo sees it all, and his stomach tries to climb up his throat and strangle him.

I did this, he thinks helplessly, nausea rising. I put him in this bed. I broke him.

The bed creaks as Gi-hun sits up straighter. His hand flies to his chest, pain flaring across his face, but he pushes through it. And still – still - he looks at Sang-woo like the sight of him is the only thing in the room that matters.

Sang-woo stops dead in the doorway. His body wants to move forward, but the rest of him is locked down, hesitant, unwilling to contaminate the space.

“Sang-woo,” Gi-hun says, voice breaking as tears gather in his eyes.

Sang-woo flinches reflexively beneath his mask, his chest tightening with an unbearable ache. God, how many times had he replayed the sound of Gi-hun screaming his name in agony, in desperation, wishing instead to hear it exactly like this? Soft. Gentle. Forgiving.

“It’s okay,” Gi-hun says softer, like he’s soothing a frightened animal. “Sang-woo, I’m okay. You can come in.”

He obeys, stepping forward as the door clicks softly shut behind him, sealing them both inside this impossible moment.

Gi-hun’s feet touch the floor slowly, painfully, and he starts toward Sang-woo. Every step looks like it could snap him in two. 

Sang-woo instinctively moves to catch him, body tensed, anxiety spiking. Careful, he thinks desperately, willing Gi-hun to stop before he hurt himself worse. Careful, hyung, please. Stop, stop hurting yourself for me.

Gi-hun laughs. 

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a lung. I have another one, right?”

It’s a joke. It’s a lie. It’s so him that Sang-woo could fall to his knees. He remembers how Gi-hun used to joke like this - back when they were boys, when everything was falling apart and the only way to survive was to laugh.

He’s still doing it now. Still trying to make it easier for him.

And Sang-woo doesn’t deserve it.

Gi-hun steps forward, until he’s close enough to reach - and then stops.

“You can take the mask off,” he says. “If you want. You can take it off, Sang-woo.”

And Sang-woo breaks, silently.

Because he knew this moment would come, and still – still - he thought he could delay it. Just a few more seconds. Just a few more breaths behind anonymity. The pink uniform wasn’t just camouflage - it was armor. It was a way to be near Gi-hun without being Sang-woo.

Because if he takes off the mask, Gi-hun will see what he is now. Not a man. Not a friend. Not even a survivor.

A monster in disguise.

A collaborator.

A man who chose the system because it was easier than facing the ruin he'd made.

The Auditor.

Taking off the mask would mean letting Gi-hun connect this face to the orders, to the structure, to the quiet efficiency of the Games. To the man who not only survived but adapted. To the one who made it easier for the machine to keep turning.

“Why are you so afraid?” Gi-hun whispers, heartbreak woven through each syllable. “It’s just me. It’s me, Sang-woo. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Gi-hun’s voice is impossibly tender and cruel in its innocence. Just me, he says, as if that makes it easier. Just me, as if he hasn’t haunted Sang-woo every waking moment since that day in the rain, since the mud and the knife and Sang-woo’s trembling hands. Just me, as if Gi-hun hasn’t been the ghost Sang-woo has chased and hidden from in equal measure for years, the only person whose disappointment could truly undo him.

But he can hear the forgiveness already there, clear as the bruises Sang-woo himself carved onto Gi-hun’s face. He can hear the fragile hope in Gi-hun’s voice, the dangerous belief that the man beneath the mask might still be someone worth forgiving, someone worth keeping.

Gi-hun stands there, patient, open, waiting.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Let me help. Can I do it? Can I help?”

Gi-hun’s eyes are wide and impossibly soft, full of tears that haven’t fallen yet.

Sang-woo finds himself nodding slowly, a tiny, fractured surrender that sends his pulse racing.

Gi-hun reaches up, slow, reverent. Sang-woo holds his breath as gentle fingers catch on the fabric, peeling back the pink hood as carefully as pulling gauze from a wound.

Sang-woo shivers.

The mask comes next, Gi-hun’s palms cradling it like something precious and fragile. Sang-woo’s eyes close involuntarily, heart thundering like it wants to run, to hide, to break free. When the mask lifts away, it’s like a second death - he feels impossibly bare, exposed. All that remains is the thin black veil, a last illusion of anonymity.

And then that too is gone.

Gi-hun stares up at him, lips parted, eyes shining with disbelief. 

For the first time in years, Sang-woo looks at Gi-hun without barriers and lies.

He’s older. They both are. Gi-hun’s eyes are lined, lashes clumped with tears. His mouth hangs open, lips chapped, trembling with disbelief. There’s a faint bruise along his chin - Sang-woo wants to touch it, to smooth it away, to take credit and blame in the same breath - but he forces his hands to stay at his sides. Stubble shadows his jaw, rough from days without a razor.

Sang-woo takes all of it in like a starving man memorizing a feast.

“Am I dreaming?” Gi-hun murmurs.

The words spear through Sang-woo. His eyes sting. He’s hidden for so long, not to protect himself, but to protect this - this moment, this memory Gi-hun has of him as something other than what he is now. And here Gi-hun stands, thinking this might be a dream, and Sang-woo is terrified he’s right.

Before Sang-woo can process what’s happening, warm hands cup his face, trembling fingers burning their imprint onto his skin. He gasps softly, stunned by the overwhelming tenderness, the impossible sensation of human warmth after years of empty coldness. He feels himself breaking open.

“You’re here,” Gi-hun whispers, voice shattered by disbelief and relief. “You’re alive. You’re real. You’re-”

He collapses into Sang-woo’s chest before the sentence even finishes. The force of it nearly knocks Sang-woo off his feet.

He stands frozen.

Gi-hun’s arms are locked around his body, clinging like a drowning man. His face is buried against Sang-woo’s collarbone, and Sang-woo-

Sang-woo doesn’t know what to do.

He wants to hold him. He wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted. But there’s a voice in his head screaming:

You don’t deserve this. Don’t you dare put your hands on him. You did this. You made him this fragile.

 He stares ahead, arms at his sides, paralyzed by shame.

Gi-hun trembles against him. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” he sobs, over and over again.

And finally, Sang-woo breaks.

His arms move, slowly at first, like they’re not his own. He wraps them around Gi-hun’s body, stiff and hesitant and afraid. Afraid of hurting him more. Afraid that even this might be too much.

But then, Gi-hun exhales.

And Sang-woo feels it all at once.

The weight of him. Or rather, the lack of it.

Gi-hun is terrifyingly light. 

When Sang-woo’s arms wrap fully around him, he’s alarmed at how easily his hands meet across Gi-hun’s back. Every pointy rib, every sharp blade of bone presses through the thin hospital gown. 

He is so much smaller than Sang-woo remembers.

When Gi-hun finally pulls back enough to look at him, Sang-woo sees the salt-shine of tears tracing his cheeks. His own vision blurs.

“I’m sorry,” Sang-woo whispers, unsure whether it’s for the past, the present, or the ruin still on its way.

Gi-hun nods softly. “I know,” he murmurs gently. “I know.

Does he? Sang-woo wonders, anguish twisting deep. Does Gi-hun know what Sang-woo did to be standing here, what he sacrificed, what he allowed? Does he know about the project, the secrets, the betrayals that stain Sang-woo’s hands redder than blood?

Does he know that Sang-woo would burn the world, now, just to keep this moment from ending?

Gi-hun’s thumb brushes gently over Sang-woo’s cheek, a touch so light it feels imaginary. Their foreheads meet, and Sang-woo lets his eyes flutter shut.

Then, his fingers trail lower, down Sang-woo’s neck, where the first scar lives. That one is easy. That one is visible. Pale, healed, brutal. The spot where the blade sank in, the last honest thing Sang-woo did to himself.

Gi-hun’s thumb shakes as he touches it. His breath catches like he’s the one who felt the blade.

And then those fingers drift even lower. Down the column of his throat.

No.

No no no no no - please, not that.

He’s searching. And he’s going to find it. The second scar.

That scar isn’t clean. It isn’t earned. It isn’t even his, not in the way the first one was. It was born in silence, in failure. Made when the system decided Sang-woo didn’t get to die after all.

Sang-woo never lets himself think about that one. He doesn’t trace it when he bathes. He doesn’t touch it when he dresses. He pretends the scar isn’t there because the moment he remembers it, he remembers what it means.

“Let me see.” Gi-hun murmurs.

Sang-woo’s body clenches.

He almost says no. Almost pulls away. But then Gi-hun looks at him - really looks - and Sang-woo realizes that it isn’t horror in Gi-hun’s voice.

It’s hope.

Hope that this is real. That Sang-woo came back. That resurrection is possible, even if it came in the ugliest form imaginable.

So Sang-woo lets him.

Gi-hun’s hands rise toward the zipper. He fumbles - once, then again - fingers shaking so hard it’s a wonder he can hold anything at all. When he finally catches the metal between his fingertips, the sound it makes as it pulls down – shhck - is obscene in the quiet.

Sang-woo doesn’t look away. He watches Gi-hun’s face the way a man watches a storm rolling in - helpless, transfixed, bracing for the collapse. He wants to see what breaks. What softens. What survives.

“Oh,” Gi-hun breathes brokenly, tears streaming freely now. “Oh, Sang-woo.”

Gi-hun touches the scar.

And it’s the gentlest thing Sang-woo has ever felt.

Gi-hun’s fingers brush over it with unbearable care. His thumb circles it, slow, worshipful, as if by mapping it he can forgive everything.

The shame feels endless, bottomless; but beneath it, a tremor of gratitude. That Gi-hun is here. That he is seen. That he is, for this moment, not alone inside his ruined skin.

At last, when he feels he might drown in it, Sang-woo lifts his own hand - slow, shaking - and lays it atop Gi-hun’s, grounding them both.

Their foreheads press together again. Warmth meets warmth. Breath meets breath. And something fractures.

Four years.

Four years of suffocating inside a lie he helped build. Of convincing himself that the Games had rules, and rules meant morality. That if the violence was structured, it was justified. That fairness could be manufactured with enough paperwork and protocol. That death, when properly arranged, was almost noble.

And worse - he believed it. In-ho fed him the doctrine and he bought it, desperate to feel useful, to feel clean. To feel right. He hid behind masks, behind policies, behind protocol so tight it strangled the name out of his own throat.

Until that project, the thing that broke the only rule they had left.

Choice.

The illusion they all needed to sleep. The myth that made the slaughter digestible. That the Games were brutal, yes, but at least everyone chose to step into the fire.

And In-ho knows. Of course he knows. That’s why he forced it on Sang-woo. Because it makes him sick too. Because if he touches it, it’ll stain him. So he passed it down. He made Sang-woo carry the burden. 

Now Gi-hun’s hand is over his, grounding him in the only truth that matters: the project can’t live. It cannot become real.

Sang-woo doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t have answers. But Gi-hun is right here, real and alive, and that changes everything. Because if there’s even a single way out, if there’s even a sliver of a path - they’ll find it together. Somehow.

Somehow.

Even if the machine tears him apart - even if it kills him - he will drag it to hell with him.

Holding Gi-hun, the boy he once loved and loves still, Sang-woo finally chooses to fight.

 

Notes:

And that’s a wrap on Intermezzo!! We’ve officially closed the curtain on this little detour, and I hope you enjoyed spending some time in Sang-woo’s head. He’s not exactly the easiest narrator, but I’ve loved exploring the way he sees the world. If nothing else, I hope it gave you a new perspective on the messy web of relationships in this story.

Next chapter marks the start of Part 2, which means we’ll be back to Gi-hun’s POV!

A quick heads-up: I’ll be away on vacation for a week, which means the next chapter might take a little longer to appear.

And oh, before I forget… Yes, I gave the Officer the real name of the actor, Park Hee-soon. Did I have a brilliant reason for this? Hahaha, absolutely not. I just got tired after inventing new names for every single member of Sang-woo’s team. Consider it my small act of self-preservation.

As always, kudos and comments are deeply appreciated!

See you soon <333